












:::^' 



l'^-.'- 






















Qass 




Book 'U^fe 



m 



\ 



THE 



HOUSEHOLD BOOK 



OF 



POETRY. 



V COLLECTED AND EDITED 



BY 



CHARLES A.. IDJ^Nj^ 



THIRD EDITION. 



NEW YOEK: 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

346 & 348 BROADWAY. 

LONDOIir: 16 LITTLE BEITAIIT. 

1859. 



^1^^^\ 



:>Y 




Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1857 by 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York 



PREFACE. 



The purpose of this book is to comprise witMn tlie bounds of a single 
volume whatever is truly beautiful and admirable among the minor poems 
of the English language. In executing this design, it has been the con- 
stant endeavor of the Editor to exercise a catholic as well as a severe taste ; 
and to judge every piece by its poetical merit solely, without regard to 
the name, nationality, or epoch of its author. Especial care has also been 
taken to give every poem entire and unmutilated, as well as in the most 
authentic form which could be procured ; though the earliest edition of an 
author has sometimes been preferred to a later one, in which the alterations 
have not always seemed to be improvements. 

The arrangement of the book will be seen to be somewhat novel ; but 
it is hoped that it may be found convenient to the reader, and not alto- 
gether devoid of aesthetic congruity. The Editor also flatters himself that 
in classifying so many immortal productions of genius according to their own 
ideas and motives, rather than according to their chronology, the nativity 
and sex of their authors, or any other merely external order, he has exhib- 
ited the incomparable richness of om- language in this department of litera- 
ture, quite as successfully as if he had followed a method more usual in such 
collections. 

That every reader should find in these pages every one of his favorite 



PREFACE 



poems is, perhaps, too much to expect ; but it is believed that of those on 
which the unanimous verdict of the intelligent has set the seal of indis- 
putable greatness, none, whether of English, Scotch, Irish, or American 
origin, will be found wanting. At the same time, careful and prolonged 
research, especially among the writers of the seventeenth century, and in 
the current receptacles of fugitive poetry, has developed a considerable 
store of treasures hitherto less known to the general public than to scholars 
and to limited circles. Of these a due use has been made, in the confident 
belief that they will not be deemed unworthy of a place with their more 
illustrious companions, in a book whicli aspii*es to become the familiar 
friend and companion of every household. 



ISew Yoek, August, 1858. 



INDEX. 



POEMS OF NATUEE 



Address to the Nightingale ... . 

Aff.r in the Desert 

Afternoon in February. ; 

Airs of Spring 

Almond Blossom 

Amaryllis ! 

Angling, Verses in Praise of 

Angler s Trysting Tree 

Angler 

Anglers Wish 

April 

Arab to the Palm 

Arethusa 

Autumn 

Autumn 

Autumn— A Dirge 

Autumn Flowers 

Autumn 's Sighing 

Belfry Pigeon 

Birch Tree 

Black Cock 

Blood Horse 

Blossoms 

Blow, Blow, thou "Winter Wind 

Bobolink 

Bramble Flower 

Brier 

Broom Flower 

Bugle Song 

Canzonet 

Chorus of Flo\yers 

Clouds 

Come to these Scenes of Peace. 

Cornfields 

Coral Grove 

Cricket . . , 

Cricket 

Cuckoo 

Cuckoo 

Cuckoo and Nightingale 

Cynthia 

Daffodils 

Daffodils , 

Daisy 

Daisy 

Dandelion 

Description of Spring 

Departure of the Swallow 

Death of the Flowers 

Dirge for the Tear 

Drinking 

Drop of Dew 

Evening 

Evening, Ode to 

Evening Star 

Evening Wind— Spirit that ) 
hroathest 



Paere 
Richard Barnfield 53 
Thomas Pringle. . 75 

Longfellow 11 7 

Thomas Carew ... 10 

Edroin Arnold 13 

Bellman 21 

Wotton 22 

T.TStoddari 20 

John Challchill.... 21 

Isaak Walton 23 

JohnKebU 12 

Bayard Taylor .. . 73 

Shelley 31 

Rood...,, 100 

Keats 99 

Shelley 99 

Mrs, Southey 96 

T. B.Read 100 

Willis 69 

Loicell 67 

Joanna BaiUie 30 

Barry Cornwall. . . 77 

HerricTc 37 

Shakespeare 113 

Thomas Hill 23 

Ehenezer Elliott ... 43 

Landor 44 

Mary Howitt 42 

Tennyson 103 

Camoens 45 

Leigh Hunt 46 

Shelley 80 

Bowles 60 

3rary Howitt 95 

Percival 88 

W. a Bennett 110 

Coxiyper 110 

John Logan 24 

Wordsworth 24 

Chaucer 25 

Ben Jonson 107 

Wordsworth 37 

HerricTc 37 

J. Mo ntgomery 39 

Wordsioorth 40 

Lowell 44 

Lord Surrey 10 

William Howitt. .. 110 

Bryant 96 

Shelley US 

Anacreon 81 

Marvell 14 

Tennyson 104 

Collins 105 

Campbell 105 

Bryant 104 



rasrt 

Evening in the Alps Montgomery 106 

Fancy Keats Ill 

Fidelity Wordsworth 93 

Flower and Leaf Chaucer 3 

FIo.wers Hood 45 

Flowers Longfelloxo 47 

Fly , Vincent Bourne. . . 70 

Folding of the Flocks Beaumont (& Fletcher 103 

Fountain..., Lowell 82 

Fringed Gentian Bryant 94 

Frost at Midnight Coleridge 113 

Garden Marvell 60 

Garden Cowley 61 

Grasshopper Anacreon. 70 

Grasshopper and Cricket Leigh Hunt 71 

Grasshopper and Cricket Keats 71 

Grasshopper, Chirping of Walter Harte 71 

Green Linnet Wordsworth 30 

Greenwood W.L.Bowles 60 

Grongar Hill John Dyer 101 

Gulf- Weed C. G. Fenner 87 

Hampton Beach Whittisr 88 

Harvest Moon H. K. White 108 

Holly Tree Southey 114 

Humble Bee Emerson 71 

Hunter of the Prairies Bryant 97 

Hunter's Song Barry Cornwall... 98 

Husbandman John Sterling 95 

Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni. Coleridge 119 

Hymn to Pan Keats 66 

Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith 48 

Influence of Natural Objects Wordsworth 118 

Inscription in a Hermitage Tliomas Warton... 64 

Invocation to Eain in Summer. . W. C. Bennet 77 

Ivy Green Charles Dickens.. 101 

July John Clare 59 

Lark Hogg 20 

Latter Eain Jones Very 100 

Lion and Giraffe Thomas Pringle. . 75 

Lion's Eide Freiligrath 74 

Little Beach-Bird P. H. Dana 87 

Little Streams Mary Howitt 33 

March Wordsworth 11 

Miy Percival 15** 

Meadows Herrick . 94 

Midges dance aboon the Burn... Robert Tannahill. 81 

Midnight Wind Motherwell 112 

Moan, Moan, ye Dying Gales.. . Henry Neele 86 

Moonrise '. Ernest Jones 107 

Morning Shakespeare 18 

Morning in London Wordsaoorth 17 

Mother Nightingale ViUegas 57 

Mountain Daisy . . • Burns 88 

My Heart 's in the Highlands . . . Burns 98 

Nature Jones Very 35 

Nature and the Poets Keats 49 

Xight is nigh Gone A lex. Montgomery 16 



INDEX 



Paere 

Night Blanco WJiite 109 

Nightingale Coleridge 55 

Nightingale Drammond 53 

Nightingale Gil Vicente 57 

Nightingale Maria Visscher. . . 57 

Nightingale Hilton 53 

Nightingale and the Dove Wordsworth 55 

2>i ightingalo's Departure Charlotte Smith. . . 58 

Nightingale, Ode to Keats 54 

Night Song Claudiic< 108 

November Hartley Coleridge. 101 

Ocean J. A. Shea 83 

Owl Barry Cornwall. . 109 

Owl Anonymous 110 

Pan Beaumont tfe Fletcher 67 

Philomela Matthew Arnold. . 55 

Pine Tree Lowell 114 

Primroses, with Morning Dew. . IlerricTc 37 

Question Shelley 35 

Eain in Summer Longfellow 79 

Redbreast Drummond 117 

Retirement Charles Cotton 64 

Return of Spring Pierre Ronsard. . . 10 

Reve du Midi Eose Terry 65 

Rhodora Emerson 38 

Rose Waller 45 

Saxon Song of Summer Anonymous 17 

Sea Barry Cornwall. . 84 

Sea— In Calm Barry Cornwall. . 87 

Seaweed Longfellow 86 

Seneca Lake Percival 89 

Skater's Song Anonymous 118 

Skylark Shelley 18 

Small Celandine Wordsworth 36 

Snow-Drop Barry Cornwall. . 12 

Snow-Storm Emerson 116 

Soliloquy on a Grasshopper W. Harte 71 

Song-Birds on a Sunday Anonymous 31 

Song for September T. W. Parsons 93 

Song for the Seasons Barry Cornwall. . 117 

Song of the Swallow Anonymous 11 

Song : On a May Morning Milton. 14 

Song — Phoebus arise Dr\mnm.ond 14 

Song to May Lord Thurloio 15 



Pape 

Song— The Lark Hartley Coleridge. 20 

Song—Pack clouds away Thomas Ileywood. 20 

Song— See, O See Lord Bristol 80 

Song of the Brook Tennyson 84 

Song of Spring Edward Youl 41 

Song— The Greenwood Tree Shakespeare 60 

Song of the "Wood Nymphs Barry Cornwall.. 67 

Song of the Summer Winds George Darley 81 

Song— The Owl 

Second Song — To the Same 

Sonnet — Autumn Moon Tliurlow 107 

Sonnet— To a Bird that haunted ) rpj^^.^j^^^ nc 

the waters of Lake Laaken f ^ ^^*^^<''^ ^^^ 

Spice Tree John Sterling 72 

Spring Anacreon. . 13 

Spring Beaumont & Fletcher 16 

Spring Tennyson 11 

Storm Song Bayard Taylor. . . 85 

Stormy Petrel Barry Cornwall. . 64 

Summer Longings McCarthy 16 

Summer Months -.... Motherwell. 17 

Summer Storm Lowell 77 

Summer Woods Mary Howitt. 68 

Tiger William Blake 74 

'Tis the last Rose of Summer . . . Moore 97 

Trailing Arbutus Rose Terry 88 

Twilight Longfellow 85 

Violets Herrick 36 

Violets W.W. Story 45 

Voices of the Grass Sarah Roberts. .... 59 

Wandering Wind Mrs. Remans 82 

Waterfowl Bryant. 58 

Water ! The Water Motherwell 33 

West Wind, Ode to Shelley 82 

Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . A. Cunningham.. . . 85 

Wild Honeysuckle Philip Freneau ... 43 

Willow Song , Mrs. Hemans 69 

Windy Night T. B. Read 112 

Winter Song Llolty 116 

Winter Wind Anonymous 115 

Woods in Winter Longfellow 115 

Yarrow Unvisited Wordsworth 90 

Yarrow Visited Wordsworth 91 

Yarrow Revisited Wordsworth 92 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Adopted Child Mrs. Remans 157 

Angel's Whisper S. Lover 126 

Annie in the Graveyard Mrs. Gilman 161 

Baby May W.C.Bennett 123 

Baby'sShoes W. C. Bennett 169 

Ballad of the Tempest J. T. Fields 164 

Boyhood W. Allston 156 

Casa Wappy D. M. Moir 174 

Child and the Mourners C. Jfackay 161 

Child and the Watcher Mrs. Browning . . . 126 

Child Asleep 3fadamedeSurmllel27 

Childhood C. Lamb 159 

Child in the Wilderness Coleridge 127 

Child Praying R. A. Willmott .... 164 

Children Landor 133 

Children in the Wood Anonymous 153 

Chimney Sweeper W. Blake 162 

Choosing a Name M. Lamh 124 

Christening C. Lamb 124 

Daniie Simonides 156 

Dying Child Fulcher 166 

Fairy Child John AnMer 130 

Fancy about a Boy Anonymous 140 

Gainbols of Children G. Barley 143 

Gipsy's Malison C. Lamb 130 

Iler eyes are Wild Wordsworth 150 

Idle Shepherd Boys Wordsworth 141 

I Keincmber, I Remember Ifood 159 

Kitten and Falling Leaves Wordsworth 128 

Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. . . Anonymous 155 

Little Bell T. Westwood 163 

Little Black Boy W.Blake 162 

Little Boy Blue Anonymous 142 

Little Children Mary Rowitt 140 

Little Red Riding Hood L^. E. Landon 143 

Lucy Wordsworth 165 



Lucy Gray Wordsworth J58 

Lullaby Tennyson 123 

Morning-Glory Mrs. Lowell 168 

Mother's Heart 31rs. Norton 136 

Mother's Hope L. Blanchard 136 

Mother's Love T. Burbidge 137 

My Child J. Pierpont 175 

My Playmates Anonymous 167 

On the Death of an Infant Z>. Smits 166 

On the Picture of an Infant Leonidaa 125 

Open Window Longfellow 168 

Pet Lamb Wordsworth 138 

Philip, my King Anonymous 125 

Pied Piper of Hamelin Browning 144 

Reconciliation Tennyson 176 

Saturday Afternoon Willis 148 

Schoolmistress Shenstone 149 

She Came and Went Lowell 168 

Shepherd Boy L. E. Landon 142 

Three Sons J. Moultrie 169 

Threnody Emerson 171 

ToaChild Rood 130 

ToaChild J. Sterling 135 

To a Child Anonymous 164 

To a Child during Sickness L. Runt 182 

To a Sleeping Child J. Wilson 133 

To Ferdinand Seymour Mrs. Norton 124 

To George M T. MUler 185 

ToH. Word97corth 132 

To J. H Leigh Runt 181 

To my Daughter Rood 139 

Town Child and Country Child. . A.Cunningham... 127 

Under my Window T. Westwood 159 

Visit from St. Nicholas G.C.Moore 147 

We are Seven Wordsworth 100 

Widow and Child Tennyson 176 



INDEX. 



XI 



Page 

Sonnets MUton 365 

Sonnets Wordsworth 394 

Song. Moore 374 

Song of Marion's Men Bryant. 380 

Song of the Greek Poet Byron 390 

Star-Spangled Banner F. S. Key 380 



Sun Kises Bright in France 

Sonnet— To a very Illustrious | 

Nobleman j 

Wae's me for Prince Charlie . . . 

"When Banners are "Waving 

Ye Mariners of England 



Page, 
Cunningham 874 

Lord Thurlow 394 

W. Glen 373 

Anonymous 366 

Campbell 386 



POEMS OF COMEDY 



Cologne 

D evil's Thoughts 

Diverting History of John Gilpin 

Essence of Opera 

Faithless Nelly Gray 

Faithless Sally Brown 

Farewell to Tobacco 

Friend of Humanity and Knife- } 

Grinder f 

Good Ale 

Groves of Blarney. 

Hag, The 

Heir of Linne 

Hypochondriacus 

Irishman 

Lady at Sea 

Little Brown Man 

Malbrouck 



Coleridge 422 

Coleridge 422 

Cowper 416 

Anonymous 425 

Hood 429 

Hood 429 

C.Lainb 426 

G. Canning 423 

J. sun 402 

B. A. Milliken 436 

Herrick 405 

Anonymous 399 

C. Lamb 426 

W. Maginn 436 

Hood 432 

Beranger 424 

Anonymous 405 



Massacre of the Macpherson 

Molony's Lament 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 

Old and Young Courtier 

Bail, The 

Eape of the Lock 

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 
Song of an imprisoned Student. 

St. Patrick was a Gentleman 

St. Patrick of Ireland, my Dear. 

Table of Errata 

Tarn O'Shanter 

Take thy Old Cloake about Thee 

Town of Passage 

Twenty -Eight and Twenty -Nine 
"What Mr. Eobinson thinks I 

about Governor B j 

"White Squall 



W. E. Aytoun 419 

Thackeray 438 

Tliackeray 439 

Anonym,ous 403 

George H. Clark.. 441 

Pope 406 

Browning 428 

G. Canni/ng 424 

H. Bennett 434 

W. 3Iaginn 435 

Hood 430 

Burns 420 

Anonyvwus 402 

Father Front 437 

W.3LPraed 440 

Lowell 441 

Thackeray 432 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY Al^D SOREOW, 



Braes of Yarrow William Hamilton 450 

Break, Break, Break Tennyson 520 

Bridge of Sighs Hood 496 

Bridal Song and Dirge T.L. Beddoes 510 

Bridal Dirge Barry Cornwall . . 511 

Bonnie George Campbell Anonymous 456 

Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe 514 

" Calm is the Night " Henry Heine 518 

Castle by the Sea. Uhland 519 

Child Noryce Anonymous 446 

Coronach Sir W.Scott. 506 

Cruel Sister Anonymous 452 

Days that are no More Tennyson 520 

Death-Bed Hood 500 

Death-Bed J. Aldrich 501 

Desolation H. T. Tuckerman. . 519 

Dowie Dens of Yarrow Anonymous 449 

Dream of Eugene Aram Hood 485 

Dirge Tennyson 507 

Dirge W. 8. Roscoe 509 

Dirge T.L. Beddoes 509 

Dirge C. G. Eastman 510 

Dirge Mrs. Hemans 511 

Dirge of Imogen Shakespeare . . 507 

Dirge of Jephthah's Daughter. . . Herrick 508 

Dirge in Cymbeline Collins 509 

Dirge for a Young Girl J. T. Fields 510 

Edward, Edward Anonymous 454 

Elegy on Captain Henderson . . . Burns 504 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H Ben Jonson 512 

Fair Annie of Lochroyan Anonymous 447 

Fair Helen Anonymotis 457 

Fishermen C. Kingsley 473 

Fishing Song. Bose Terry 519 

Funeral Hymn D. Mallett 505 

Hester C. Lamb 501 

How's my Boy 8. BobeU 483 

Hunter's Vision Bryant. 489 

Ichabod Whiltier 512 

Inchcape Eock Southey 480 

Iphigenia and Agamemnon Landor 470 

King of Denmark's Eide 3frs. Norton 478 

Lament Shelley 518 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant. . Lady Dufferin 495 

Lament of the Border "Widow. . Anonyinous 456 

Lamentation for Celin Anonymous 471 



Last Journey 

Lord Eandal 

Lord UUin's Daughter. 

Lost Leader 

Lycidas 

Mariner's Dream 

May Queen , 

Mother's Last Song 



Nymph Complaining for the | 

Death of her Fawn f 

On the Loss of the Eoyal George 
On the Funeral of Charles the / 

First f 

On the Death of George the | 

Third j 

! Snatched away in Beauty's ) 

Bloom ) 

! Breathe not his Name 

Pauper's Deathbed 

Pauper's Drive 

Peace ! what do Tears Avail ? . . . 

Phantom 

Poet's Epitaph 

Prisoner of Chillon 

Eare "Willy Drowned in Yarrow 

Sea 

Sir Patrick Spens 

Snow-Storm 

Softly "Woo Away her Breath... 

Sohrab and Eustum 

Solitude 

Song — Yarrow Stream 

Song — Mary go 

Song of the Silent Land 

Song of the Shirt 

Stanzas to the Memory of ) 

- Thomas Hood f 

The Moon was A-waning 

Tom Bowling 

Twa Brothers 

Twa Corbies 

Very Mournful Ballad 

Warden of the Cinque Ports 

"When I Beneath 

"Wreck of the Hesperus 

Young Airly 



3£rs. Southey 

Anono/mous 

Campbell 

Brotoning 

Milton 

W. Dim.ond 

Tennyson 

Barry CormcaU. 

Marvell 

Cowper 

W.L.Bowles 



H. Smith. 



Byron 

Moore 

3frs. Southey 

T.Noel 

Barry CormcaU. 
Bayard Taylor. . 

E. Elliott 

Byron 

Anonymous 

R. H. Stoddard.. 

Anonymous , 

C. G. Eastman.. . 
Barry CormcaU. 

3L Arnold 

H. K. Wldte 

J. Logan »^ 

C. Kingsley 

Salts 

.Hood 

B. Simmons 

J- ILogg 

C. Dibdin 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

Longfello^o 

3Iother\cell 

Longfellow 

Anonymous 



454 
479 
513 
502 
482 
490 
497 

494 

480 
513 



506 

506 
498 
500 
501 
511 
517 
474 
451 
47S 
445 
488 
489 
458 
518 
452 
457 
498 
497 



4S4 
484 
455 
456 

472 
515 
517 
481 

487 



INDEX. 



POEMS OF THE IM AGIISr ATIO IST. 



Page 

Ariel's Songs Shakespeare 546 

Birth of Venus Anonymous 545 

Comus, a Mask Milton 550 

Culprit Fay J. R. Drake 536 

Djiniis, The Victor Hugo 581 

Fairy Queen Anonymous 52S 

Fairy Song Keats 529 

Fairy, Song of Shakespeare 529 

Fairies' Song Anonymous 529 

Fairies, Song of Randolph 530 

Fairies of Caldon Low Mary Howitt 535 

Fairies' Farewell R. Corbett 544 

Fairies W. AUingham, 544 

Ilylas B. Taylor 563 

Kilmeny Hogg 531 

King Arthur's Death Anonym,ous 523 

Kubla Khan Coleridge 578 

La Belle Dame Sans MercL Keats 530 



Lady of Shallott 

Lorelei 

Merry Pranks of Eobin-Good ) 

Fellow f 

Midnight Keview 

O ! Where do Fairies Hide ) 

their Heads ? ) 

Eaven, The 

Ehcecus 

Eime of the Ancient Mariner. . . 

Siren's Song 

Song — The Fairy Beam 

Song— A Lake and a Fairy-boat. 

Song— Hear, sweet Spirit 

Thomas, the Ehymer 

Water Lady 

Water Fay 

Wee, Wee Man 



Pflgf 

Tennyson 54f 

H.Heine 547 

Anonymous 527 

Zedlitz 56? 

T.H Bayly 536 

Poe 578 

Lowell 566 

Coleridge 569 

W. Browne 546 

Ben Jonson 545 

Hood 548 

Coleridge 546 

Anonymous 525 

Hood 547 

H Heine 547 

Anonym,ous 526 



POEMS OF SEKTIMEI^T Al^J) KEFLECTI01>r. 



Abou Ben Adhem 

Abstract of Melancholy 

Address to the Mummy at ) 

Belzoni's Exhibition j 

Age of Wisdom 

Alexander's Feast 

All Earthly Joy Eeturns in Pain 

Allegro L' 

Arranmore 

Arsenal at Springfield 

Balder 

Barclay of Ury 

Battle of Blenheim 

Be Patient 

Bells, The 

Bells of Shandon 

Bucket, The 

Burns 

Burns, At the Grave of 

Canadian Boat Song 

Contented Mind 

" Contemplate all this Work ". . . 

Constantia — Singing 

Cotter's Saturday Night 

Cowper's Grave 

Crowded Street 

Death 

Death of the Virtuous 

Death's Final Conquest 

De.iection— An Ode 

Delight in Disorder 

Deserted Village 

Each and All 

Egyptian Serenade 

Elegy written in a Country | 
Church- Yard j 

End of the Play 

Epitaph on the admirable Dra- j 
matic Poet, W. Shakespeare j 

Evening Bells 

Exhortation 

Fisher'b Cottage 

Footsteps of Angels 

Forging of the Anchor 

Fountain 

Garden of Love 

Good-Bye 

Good, Great Man 

Good Time Coming 

Grave of a Poetess 

Greenwood Shrift 

Guy 

Hallowed Ground 



X. Hunt 591 

Robert Burton.... 661 

Horace Smith 589 

Thackeray 666 

Hryden 609 

William Dunbar. . 585 

Milton 646 

3foore 681 

Longfellow 597 

Anont/mous 588 

Whittier 586 

Southey 596 

B. C. trench 686 

E. A. Poe 607 

F. Mahoney 606 

S. Woodworth 598 

Whittier 638 

Wordsworth 636 

Moore 614 

J. Sylvester 650 

Tennyson 683 

Shelley 613 

Burns 689 

Mrs. Browning 630 

Bryant 658 

W. E. Channing . . 704 

Mrs. Barba^ild 710 

J. Shirley 699 

Coleridge 664 

Herrick 615 

Goldsmith 600 

Emerson 687 

G. W. CurUs 614 

Gray 710 

Thackeray 670 

Jlilton 623 

Moore 608 

Shelley 645 

Henry Heine 590 

Longfellow 706 

S. Ferguson 594 

Wordsworth 657 

W. Blake 688 

Emerson 659 

Coleridge 676 

C. Mackay 684 

Thomas Miller. ... 640 
R.i& C. Southey... 702 

Emerson 660 

Campbell 692 



Happy Valley T. Miller 680 

Happy Life Woiton 693 

Harmosan B.C. Trench 587 

Heavenly Wisdom J. Logan 694 

Hebe Lowell 616 

Hence all you Vain Delights . . .Beaumont & Fletcher 662 

Hermione Barry Cornwall... 617 

Hermit Beatiie 700 

Highland Girl Wordsworth 618 

Honest Poverty Burns 683 

Human Frailty Cowper 675 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, . . Shelley 655 

Hymn of the Church- Yard J. Bethune 708 

If that were true Frances Brown. . . 685 

I am a Friar of Orders Gray J. O'Keefe 666 

Influence of Music Shakespeare 611 

Is it Come ? Frances Brown. . . 684 

King Death Barry Cornwall. .. 703 

Last Leaf 0. W. Holmes 669 

Life Barry Cornwall . . 703 

Life H King 707 

Life and Death Anonymous 702 

Light of Stars Longfellow 698 

Lines on a Skeleton Anonymous 707 

Lords of Thule Anonymous 585 

Losses Frances Brown. . . 676 

Lost Church Uhland 688 

Lye, The Anonymous 651 

Macaulay Landor 64l 

Man G. Herbert 694 

Man's Mortality S. Wastell 707 

Margaret Hussey Skelton 616 

Means to attain "Happy Life Lord Surrey 646 

Mermaid Tavern, Lines on Keats 624 

Minstrel, The Goethe 642 

Mother Margery G. S. Burleigh, .... 621 

Music Dryden 611 

Mutability Shelley 673 

Mv Mind to me a Kingdom is. . . W. Byrd 652 

Night Habington 698 

No More A. H. Clough 673 

Nvmph's Song Wither 622 

Ode— Bards of Passion Keats 641 

Ode— Intimations of Immortality Wordsworth 695 

Ode— To Himself. Ben Jonson 625 

Ode on a Grecian Urn Keats 645 

Ode to Melancholy Hood 662 

Ode to Duty Wordsworth 674 

Old R. Hoyt 667 

Old Maid Mrs. Welby 620 

On a Lady Singing T. W. Parsons 613 

On Anacreon Anfipater 623 

I One Gray Hair Landor 667 



INDEX. 



On the Receipt of my Mother's ) 
Picture ) 

Oa the Death of Burns 

On Chapman's Homer 

O ! The Pleasant Days of Old ! . . 

Passions— An Ode 

Penseroso II 

Perilla 

Petition to Time 

Poet's Thought 

Poor Man's Song 

Problem 

Psalm of Life 

Queen of May 

Qua Cursum Ventus 

Pveply 

Resolution and Independence. . . 

Eobin Hood 

Seed-Time and Harvest 

Sir Marmaduke 

Sit Down, Sad Soul 

Slave Singing at Midnisht 

Sleep ^. 

Sleep, The 

Smoking Spiritualized 

Shakespeare 

She 'Walks in Beauty. 

" She was a Phantom of Delight " 

Shepherd's Hunting 

Soldier's Dream 

Song — say not that my Heart. 

Song— Still to be neat 

Song — Lady Leave 

Song— Sweet are the Thoughts. 

Song — 'V\'hat pleasure have great 
Princes 

Song— Time is a feathered Thing 

Song of the Forge 

Sonnet — 'T is much, immortal I 
Beauty j 

Sonnet—The Nightingale is mute 



Page 

Cowper 599 

W. JRoscoe 635 

ICeats 639 

Frances Brown. . . 678 

Collins 611 

Milton 648 

Her rick 667 

Barry Cornwall. . . 671 

Barry Cornwall. . . 642 

Anonymous 679 

Emerson 689 

Longfellow 706 

G. Barley 615 

A.H. Clough : . 673 

J. JV^orris 650 

Wordsworth 643 

Keats 677 

Whittier 695 

Colman the younger 666 

Barry Cornwall. . . 705 

Longfellow 701 

J. Doicland 702 

3frs. Broicning . . . 701 

Anonymous 661 

J. Sterling 624 

Byron. 617 

Wordsworth 619 

Wither 625 

Campbell 596 

C. Wolfe. 674 

Ben Jonsan 615 

Hood 617 

R. Green 650 

iw.Byrd 651 

Anonymous 671 

Anonymous 593 

Thurlow 616 

Thurlow 641 



Sonnet— "Who Best can Paint. . . 

Sonnet— If Accident 

Sonnets.— Triumphing Chariots. 

Sonnet— Sad is our Youth 

Sonnets 

Sonnet— Of mortal Glory 

Soul's Defiance 

Stanzas— Thought is deeper 

Stanzas— My life is like 

Steamboat, The 

Strife, The 

Sturdy rock, for all his Strength 

Sunrise comes To-morrow 

Sunken City 

Sweet Pastoral 

Sweet is the Pleasure 

Tables Turned 

Temperance ; or, the Cheap ) 

Physician f 

Thanatopsis 

There bo Those 

There are Gains for all our ) 

Losses f 

Time's Cure 

To My Sister 

Two Oceans 

Two Brides 

Uhland 

Upon Julia's Recovery 

Yerses, supposed to be writ- | 

ten by Alex. Selkirk ) 

Yictorious Men of Earth 

Yillage Blacksmith 

Yirtue 

Yision, The 

White Island 

"Who is Sylvia ? 

Why thus Longing ? 

Winter being over 

Woman's Yoice 

World, The 



Pflffe 

Thurloxo 642 

Thurlow 653 

Brummond 654 

Aubrey De Vere. . . 672 

Hilton 676 

Drunimondy 707 

Laxinia Stoddard . 672 

C. P. Crunch 656 

B. H. Wilde 673 

O. W. Holmes 592 

Tennyson 700 

Anonymous 699 

Anonymous 682 

MiiUer 659 

i^. Breton 654 

J. S. Dwight 656 

Wordsworth 657 

Crashaw 660 

Bryant 709 

B. Barton 687 

B. H. Stoddard. ... 672 

Anonymous 671 

Whittier 619 

J. Sterling 590 

B. H. Stoddard. ... 619 

W. A.Butler 640 

Herrick 617 

Cowper 591 

J. Shirley 597 

Longfellow 592 

G. Herbert 699 

Burns 632 

Herrick 679 

Shakespeare 617 

Harriet Winslow.. 675 

Ann Collins 653 

U.Arnold 614 

Jones Very. 686 



POEMS OF KELIGION", 



All Well 

Another's Sorrow 

Bee, The 

Believers, For 

Call, The 

Centennial Ode 

Charity 

Charity and Humility 

Christmas 

Christmas Hymn 

Christ Dying, Rising, and ) 

Reigning J 

Christ's Message 

Chorus 

Complaining 

" Come unto me " 

Creator and Creatures 

Darkness is Thinning 

Dead Christ 

Death 

Dedication of a Church 

Delight in God Only 

Desiring to Love 

Dirge 

Divine Ejaculation 

Divine Love 

Dying Christian to his Soul 

Each sorrowful Mourner 

Early Rising and Prayer 

Easter 

Easter Hymn 

Elder Scripture 

Emigrants in Bermudas 

Epiphany 

"Eternal beam of Light Di- ) 

vine " ( 



H. Bonar 770 

W.Blake 785 

H. Vaughan 717 

C. Wesley 756 

G.Herbert 733 

J. Pierpont 752 

J. Montgomery 756 

Henry More 747 

Tennyson 743 

A. Dommett 743 

Watts 730 

Doddridge 727 

Milman 787 

G. Herbert 735 

3Trs. Barbauld 737 

Watts 782 

St. Greqory 715 

Mrs. Howe 742 

C. Wesley 762 

Drummond 749 

F Quarles 790 

C. Wesley 757 

Croly 762 

J. Quarles 788 

Tersteegen 757 

Pope 759 

PrudenUus 764 

H. Vaughan 715 

G. Herbert 731 

T. Blackburn 732 

Keble 718 

Martell 745 

Heber 725 

C. Wesley 739 



Example of Christ 

Exhortation to Prayer. 

Fasting 

Feast, The 

Field of the World 

Flower, The 

For New- Year's Day 

For those that wait for full ) 

Redemption f 

For a Widower or Widow 

" Friend of All" 

Future Peace and Glory of ) 

the Church f 

Gethsemane 

Gethsemane 

God 

God in Nature 

God is Love 

God's Greatness 

Heavenly Canaan 

Heaven, Of 

"How Gracious and How ) 

Wise'' ] 

Humility 

Hymn — On the Nativity 

Hymn — To the Saviour 

Hymn — When our Heads 

Hymn— Drop, drop, slow Tears. 
Hymn of the Hebrew Maid. . . . 
Hymn— For anniversary Mar- ) 

riage Days j 

Hymn— When the Angels 

Hymn-When rising from the bed 

Hymn of Praise 

Hymn from Psalm CXLYIII... 
Hymn — When all thy Mercies . . 



Watts 737 

Margaret Mercer, . 754 

F. Quarles 746 

Vaughan 734 

J. Montgomery 752 

G.Herbert 736 

Dodd.ridge 718 

C. Wesley 756 

Wither 763 

G. Wesley 740 

Cowper 769 

Joseph Hart 729 

J. Montgomery 730 

Derzhatyin 792 

Doddridge 718 

Anonymous 786 

Breithaupt 791 

Waits 765 

Jeremy Taylor 769 

Doddridge 786 

J. Montgomery 748 

Milton 722 

Damascemis 732 

Milman 741 

P. Fletcher 742 

Sir W.Scott 745 

Wither 748 

Nicholas Breton... 754 

Addison 761 

Tersteegen 772 

Ogilvie 780 

Addison 788 



INDEX. 



Pago 



Wither 721 

KeUe 748 

Newton 737 

C. Wesley 738 

a Wesley 739 



Hymn— Brother, thou art Gone. Mihncm 761 

In a clear, starry Ni^t 

Is this a Time to Plant and | 

Build f 

Jesus 

" Jesus, Lover of my Soul " 

Jesus, my Strength 

Laborer's Noon-day Hymn Wordsworth 745 

Life B. Xing 707 

Light Shining out of Darkness. . . Cowper 783 

Lines, on a celebrated Picture. . . 0. Lamb 728 

Little While H. Bonar 765 

Living by Christ Gerhard 740 

Litany Sir B. Gramt, 741 

Litany to the Holy Spirit Herrick 758 

Lord,"the Good Shepherd J. Montgomery. . . 772 

Love Watts 755 

Mary Tennyson 755 

"Mark the soft-falling Snow".... Doddridge 719 

Messiah Pope 726 

Missionary Hymn Heber 753 

My God, t love Thee St. Fran. Xa/vier. . 732 

New Jerusalem Anonymous 

Ode— The Spacious Firmament. . Addison 

Ode— How are thy Servants Addison 

Odor, The G. Herbert 

On the Morning of Christ's Na- 
tivity 

On a Prayer Book sent to Mrs. 
M. E 



766 
719 

782 
734 

Milton 722 

Crashaw 750 



yet we trust Tennyson 755 



Anonymous . 



O ! Fear not thou to die 

Passion Sunday Fortunatus 

Peace H. Vaughan 769 

Philosopher's Devotion JT. More 716 

Poefs Hymn for Himself Wither 7T3 

Praise for Creation and Provi- j xpa^^^ 720 

dence f 

Praise to God Mrs. Barbauld. . . Ill 

Praise, The Wither 773 

Prayer, Living and Dying Toplady 736 

Priest, The N. Breton 749 

Psalm XIII F. Davison 774 

Psalm XVIII T.Sternhold 774 

PsalmXIX WaUs 775 



Psalm XX 

Fsalm XXIII 

Psalm XXIII 

Psalm XXX 

Psalm XLVI 

Psalm LXV 

Psalm LXVI 

Psalm LXXII 

Psalm XCII 

Psalm 

Psalm CXVII 

Psalm CXXX 

Psalm CXLVIII 

Keign of Christ on Earth 

Eesignation 

Safe Stronghold 

Search after God 

Sincere Praise 

Sonnet — In the Desert 

Sonnet — The Prayers I make . . 
Sonnet — How orient is thy 

Beauty 

Spirit Land 

Stranger and his Friend 

St. Peters Day 

Sun, Moon, and Stars praise ye 

the Lord 

They are all gone 

Thou art gone to the Grave 

" Thou, God, seest Me " 

Thou, God, unsearchable 

Time past. Time passing, Time 

to come 

To keep a true Lent 

True use of Music 

Twelfth Day, or the Epiphany. . 

Universal Prayer 

Valediction 

Veni, Creator 

Walking with God 

Watchman's Eeport 

Weeping Mary 

What is Prayer ? 

" When I can read my Title clear 
Wilderness Transformed 



Page 

C. Wesley 775 

F. Davison 776 

Merrick 776 

Damson 776 

Watts 777 

Watts 778 

Sandys 778 

Watts 779 

Sandys 779 

Tate and Brady. . 779 

Watts 780 

P. Fletcher 780 

Sandys 781 

J. Montgomery... 728 

Ohatterton 786 

Luther 783 

T.Heywood 784 

WatU 721 

Anonymous 742 

Michael Angela . . 772 

F. Quarles 735 

Jones Very 716 

J. Ifontgomery . . . 733 
Keble 744 

WaUs 720 

K Vaughan 764 

Heber 761 

J. Montgomery. . . 789 
O. Wesley 791 

J. Montgomery... 791 

Herrick 746 

a Wesley 751 

Wither 727 

Pope 788 

Richard Baxter.. 759 

St. Ambrose 771 

Cowper 785 

J, Bowring 738 

J. Ifewton 731 

J. Montgomery... 753 

Watts 769 

Doddridge 770 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Page 
ADDISON^, JOSEPH, 

Bom in Wiltshire, Eug., May 6, 1672 ; died inLon., June 11, 1119. 

Ode — The Spacious Firmament — 719 

Hymn — "When Eising from the Bed 761 

Ode— How are thy Servants 782 

Hymn— When all thy Mercies 783 

AKENSIDE, MAEK. 

Born HtNewcHStle-upon-Tyne, Nov. 9, 1721 j d. June 23, 1770. 

On a Sermon against Glory 395 

ALDEICH, JAMES. 

Born ill Orange Co., N. Y., July 10, 1810. 

A Death-bed „ . . 501 

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. 

Born in Ireland ; lives at Ballyshannon ; published "The Music 
Master, and Day and Night Songs." London, 1855. 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 270 

The Fairies 544 

ALLSTON, WASHINGTON. 

Bi.rn in S. C, Nov. 5, 177 9 ; d. at Cambridge, Mass., July 9, 1843. 

Boyhood 156 

Eosalie 280 

AMBEOSE, ST. (Latin.) 

Born at Treves, a.d., 340; died at Milan, April 3, 397. 

Veni Creator. {Dry dm" & Paraphrase.) 771 

ANACEEON. (Geeek.) 

Born at Teos, Greece ; died there 476 b. c. 

Spring. {Moore's translation.) 13 

On the Grasshopper. (Cowper's translation.) 70 
The Grasshopper. {Cowley''s translation.).., 70 

Drinking. {Cowley's translation.) 81 

The Portrait. {Ray's translation.) 279 

Cheat of Cupid, {llerrick's translation.) 287 

ANGELO, MICHAEL. (Italian.) 

Burn in Tuscany, March 6, 1474 ; died in Rome Feb. 17, 1563. 

Sonnet. {R. Coleridge's translation.) 247 

Sonnet. {R. Coleridge's translation.) 261 

Sonnet. {S. Wordsworth's translation.).... . 772 

ANSTEE, JOHN. 

Born in Ireland about 1795 ; is Professor of Civil Law in Trinity 
College, Dublin, 

The Fairy Child 130 

ANTIPATEE OF SIDON. (Gkeek.) 

Lived in Greece about 100 b. c. 

On Anacreon. {T. Moore's translation.) 623 

AENOLD, EDWIN. 

Son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby ; brother of Matthew Arnold. 

Almond Blossom 13 

Woman's Voice 614 

AENOLD, MATTHEW. 

Born at Laleham, Eng., Dec. 24, 1822 ; elected Professor of 
Poetry at Oxford in 1857. 

Philomela 55 

Excuse 321 

Indifference 321 

Sohrab and Eustum 458 



Page 
AYTOUN, WILLIAM E. 

Born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1813. Editor of " Blackwood." 

Massacre of the Macpherson 419 

BAILLIE, JOANNA. 

Born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, in 1762 ; died st Hampstead, 
near London, Feb. 23, 1851. 

The Black Cock 30 

BAEBAULD, ANNA L^TITIA. 

Born in Leicestershire, Eng., June 20, 1743 ; died near London, 
March 9, 1825. 

Death of the Virtuous 710 

" Come unto Me." ." 737 

Praise to God 771 

BAENAED, LADY ANN. 

Born in Scotland, Dec. 8, 1750; died May 8, 1825. 

Auld Eobin Gray 312 

BAENFIELD, EICHAED. 

Born in Staflbrdshire, Eng., in 1574 ; died about 1606. 

Address to the Nightingale 53 

BAETON, BEENAED. 

Bom near London, Jan. 31, 1784 ; died Feb. 19, 1849. 

Not ours the Vows 836 

There be Those 687 

BAXTEE, EICHAED. 

Bom in Shropshire, Eng., Nov. 1615 ; died Dec. 8, 1691. 

Valediction 759 

BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES. 

Bern in Bath, Eng., in 1797 ; died in 1839. 

1 Where do Fairies hide their Heads ? 536 

BEATTIE, JAMES. 

Bom in Kincardineshire, Scot., Oct. 20, 1735 ; died Aug. 18, 1803. 

The Hermit 700 

BEAUMONT and FLETCHEE. 

Were connected as writers in London from about 1605 to 1615. 
Francis Beaumont, b. in Leicestershire in 1586 ; d. March 9, 1616 ; 
John Fletcher, b. in Northamptonshire in 1576 ; d. in Lon. in 1625. 

Spring 16 

To Pan 67 

Folding of the Flocks 103 

Speak, Love 250 

Beauty Clear and Fair 250 

Hear, Ye Ladies 250 

Hence all you Vain Delights 662 

BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL. 

Bom near Bristol, Eng., in 1802 ; died in Germany in 1849. 

Love's Last Message 328 

Dirge 509 

Bridal Song and Dirge 510 

BELLMAN, C. M. (Swedish.) 

Bora at Stockholm, Sweden, in 1741 ; died in 1795. 

Up, Amaryllis. {M. Sbwitt's translation.).. . 21 
BENNETT, HENEY. 

Born in Cork, Ireland, about 1785. 

St. Patrick was a Gentleman 434 



XVI 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 

BENNETT, WILLIAM C. 

Lives in Uxidou. 

Invocation to Eain in Summer 77 

To a Cricket 110 

Baby May 128 

Baby's Shoes 169 

BERANGEK, PIERRE JEAN DE. (French.) 

Bern in Paris, Aug. 19, 1780; died July 16, 1857. 

Little Brown Man. {Anonymous translation.) 424 
BETHUNE, JOHN. 

I Born in Fiieshire, Scotland, in 1812 ; died Sept. 1, 1839. 

Hymn of the Church-yard 708 

BLACJKBURN, THOMAS. 

Author of " Hymns nnd Poems for the Sick and Sufifering." 

Easter Hymn 732 

BLAKE, WILLIAM. 

Born in London, Nov. 28, 1757 ; died Aug. 12, 1828. 

The Tiger 74 

Chimney Sweeper 162 

The Little Black Boy 162 

The Garden of Love 688 

Another's Sorrow 785 

BLANCHARD, LAMAN. 

Born at Great Yarmouth, Eug., May 15, 1803 ; died Feb. 5, 1S45. 

Mother's Hope 136 

BONAR, H0EATIU8. 

Born in Scotland about 1810. Min. of the Free Church in Kelao. 

A Little While 765 

All Well 770 

BOURNE, VINCENT. 

An usiier m Westminster School ; bom about 1695 ; died Dec. 
2, 1747. 

The Fly 70 

BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE. 

Born in Xorthaniplonshire, Sept. S4, 1762 ; died April 7, 1850. 

Come to these Scenes of Pe^ce 60 

The Greenwood 60 

On the Funeral of Charles the First 513 

BOWRING, JOHN. 

Born Ml txeter, Eng., Oct. 27, 1792. 

Watchman's Report 738 

BEAINARD, JOHN G. 0. 

Born at New Lou.lon, Conn., Oct. 21, 1796 ; died Sept. 26, 1828. 

Epithalamium 336 

BREITHAUPT, JOACHIM JUSTUS. 

Born in Hanover in 1658 ; died INfarch 16, 1732. 

God's Greatness. {John Wesley's translation.) 791 
BRETON, NICHOLAS. 

Bom in Enur'and in 1555 ; died in 1624. 

Phillida and Corydon 247 

A Sweet Pastoral 654 

Priest 749 

Hymn 754 

BRISTOL, LORD. (Geobge Digby.) 

Born ill ^ladrid in 1612 ; died at Chelsea, March 20, 1676. 

Song 80 

BROOKS, MARIA. 

Born at Medford, Mass., about 1795 ; died in Cuba, Nov. II, 1845. 

Song 282 

BROWN, FRANCES. 

Born in Ireland, June 16, 1818. 

Losses 676 

O ! the Pleasant Days of Old 678 

Is it Come? 684 

If that were True 685 

BROWNE, WILLIAM. 

Born in I)evr,i,shiie in 1590 ; died in 1645. 

Shall I tell? 250 

Welcome, Welcome 259 

The Siren's Song 546 



Page 
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 

Born in England about 1(^09. 

The Child and Watcher 126 

Bertha in the Lane 313 

Cowper's Grave 630 

The Sleep 701 

BROWNING, ROBERT. 

Born near London in 1812. 

Pied Piper of Hamelin 144 

One Way of Love 293 

Misconceptions 293 

In a Year 298 

Statue and Bust 316 

Evelyn Hope 324 

Give a Rouse 363 

How they brought the Good News from Ghent 

to Aix 376 

Incident of the French Camp 385 

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 428 

The Lost Leader 513 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 

Born at Cummington, Mass., Nov. 3, 1794, 

To a Waterfowl 58 

The Fringed Gentian 94 

Death of the Flowers 96 

The Hunter of the Prairies 97 

The Evening Wind 104 

Burial of Love 328 

Song of Marion's Men 380 

! Mother of a Mighty Race 382 

The Battle-field 383 

The Hunter's Vision 489 

The Crowded Street 658 

Thanatopsis 709 

BURBIDGE, THOMAS. 

Born in England; published "Poems, Longer and Shorter " 
Lond. 1838. 

Mother's Love 137 

If I desire with Pleasant Songs 288 

BURLEIGH, GEORGE S. 

Born at Pliiiiifielii, Conn., March 26, 1821. 

Mother Margery 621 



BURNS, ROBERT. 

Born near Ayr, Scotland, Jan. 25, 1759 ; died July 21, 1796. 

A Mountain Daisy 38 

My heart's in the Highlands 98 

Auld Lang Syne 192 

Ca' the Ybwes to the Knowes 2(53 

Here's a Health to Ane 263 

Farewell to Nancy 264 

Of a' the airts the Wind can Blaw 264 

Lass of Ballochmyle : 205 

Red, Red Rose 265 

Bonnie Leslie 268 

Highland Mary 324 

To Mary in Heaven 825 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 337 

John Anderson 340 

Blissful Day 340 

Bannock -Burn 360 

Here's a Health to them that's Awa' 870 

Kenmure's on and Awa' 370 

Tarn O'Shanter 420 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 504 

The Vision 682 

Honest Poverty 683 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 689 

BURTON, ROBERT. 

Born at Lindley, Eng., in 1576 ; died in 1639. 

Abstract of Melancholy 661 



BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN. 

Born in Albany, N. Y., in 1825. 

Uhland 



BYRD, WILLIAM. 

An English musical composer— lived about ; 



640 



651 



My minde to Me a Kingdom Is. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



xvu 



Page 
BYRON, LORD. 

Born in L n l.n, Jan. 22, 1783 ; died April 19, 1824. 

To Thomas Moore 188 

Maid of Athens, ere we Part 261 

Girl of Cadiz 262 

Stanzas for Music 263 

Dreams 294 

When we two Parted 297 

Destruction of Sennacherib 350 

Song of the Greek Poet 390 

The Prisoner of Chillon 474 

0! Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom 506 

She Walks in Beauty 617 

CALLISTRATUS. (Greek.) 

Lived in Greece about 500 B. c. 

Harmodius and Aristogeiton. {Lord Denman'a 
translation.) 351 

CAMOENS, LUIS DE. (Portttguese.) 

Born in Lisbon about 1524 ; died in 15"9. 

Canzonet. {Boscoe's translation.) 45 

CAMPBELL, THOilAS. 

Born in Gliisgow, July 27, 1777 ; d. at Boulogne, June 15, 1844. 

To the Evening Star 105 

Song. 284 

Lochiers Warning 371 

Hohenlinden 385 

Ye Mariners of England 386 

Battle of the Baltic 387 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 479 

The Soldier's Dream 596 

Hallowed Ground 692 

CANNING, GEORGE. 

Born in London, April 11, 1770 ; died at Chiswick, Aug. 8, 1827. 

Friend of Humanity, and the KJaife-Grinder . . 423 
Song of an Imprisoned Student 424 

CAREW, THOMAS. 

Born in Devonshire, England, in 1589 ; died in 1639. 

The Airs of Spring 10 

Song. 256 

Disdain Returned 256 

CHALKHILL, JOHN. 

A friend uf izaak Walton ; lived in tlie 17th century. 

The Angler 21 

GHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY, Jk. 

Born in B.stun, Mass., Nov. 26, 1818. 

Death 704 

CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 

Born at Bristol, England, Nov. 20, 1752 ; killed himself, Aug. 
25, 1770. 

The Resignation 786 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 

Born in L n-i..,, i„ 1328 ; .ii -d Oct. 25, 1400. 

Flower and the Leaf 3 

The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 253 

CLARE, JOHN. 

Born id XurUuiniiitonsbire, England, July 13, 1793. 

July 59 

CLARK, GEORGE H. 

Lives at Hnrtf.MU, Conn. 

The Rail 441 

CLAUDIUS, MATTHIAS. (German.) 

Born near i j: e. U, Germany, ni 1743; diea in 1815. 

Night Song. ((7. T. Brooks' translation.) 108 

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 

Natura M aturans 286 

No More 673 

Qua Cursum Ventus 673 

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. 

Bom ii.-:ir r> -to , fng., Sept. 19, 1796 ; died Jan. 19, 1849. 

Song— The Lark 20 

November 101 



Page 
COLERIDGE, 8AMFEL TAYLOR. 

Born in Devonshire, Eng., Oct. 21, 1772 ; died July 25, 1834. 

The Nightingale 55 

Frost at Midnight 113 

Hymn, before Sunrise 119 

The Child in the Wilderness 127 

Love 232 

Cologne 422 

Devil's Thoughts 422 

Song — Hear Sweet Spirit 546 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner 569 

Kubla Khan 578 

Dejection : an Ode 664 

The good great Man 676 

COLLINS, ANN. 

Lived in England about 1 650. 

Winter being Over 653 

COLLINS, WILLIAM. 

Bom at Chichester, England, Dec. 25, 1720; died in 1756. 

Ode to Evening 105 

Ode— How Sleep the Brave 375 

Dirge in Cvmbeline 509 

The Passions 611 

COLMAN, GEORGE, " The Yottnger." 

Born in London, Oct. 21, 1762 ; died Oct. 26, 1836. 

Sir Marmaduke 666 

COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON. 

Born at Martinsburg, Va., Oct. 26, 1816; died J.in. 20, 1850. 

Florence Yane 322 

CORBETT, RICHARD. 

Born in Surrey, England, in 1582 ; died in 1635. 

The Fairies' Farewell 544 

CORNWALL, BARRY. (B. W, Procter.) 

Bom in Wiltshire, England, about 1798. 

The Snow-Drop 12 

Song of the Wood Nymphs 67 

The Blood Horse 77 

The Sea 84 

The Stormy Petrel U 

The Sea— In Calm 87 

The Hunter's Song 98 

The Owls 109 

A Song for the Seasons 117 

Sons: — Love me if I Live 272 

Poet's Song to his Wife 339 

Softly Woo awav her Breath 489 

The Mother's Last Song 497 

Peace ! What do Tears Avail ? 501 

Bridal Dirge 511 

Hermione 617 

Poet's Thought 642 

Petition to Time 671 

King Death 703 

Life 705 

Sit down. Sad Soul 905 

COTTON, CHARLES. 

Born in Derbyshire, England, in 1630; died in 1687. 

The Retirement 64 

COTTON, NATHANIEL. 

Born at St. Albans, England, in 1721 ; died in 1788. 

The Fireside 254 

COWLEY, ABRAHAM. 

Born in London in 1618 ; died July 28, 1667. 

The Garden 61 

COWPER, WILLIAM. 

Born in Hertf rdsbire, Eng., Nov. 15, 1731 ; died April 25, 1800. 

The Cricket 110 

Boadicea. 352 

Diverting History of John Gilpin 416 

On the Loss of the Royal George 480 

Verses, supposed to be written by Alex. Selkirk 591 

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 599 

Human Frailty 675 

Future Peace and Glory of the Church 769 

Light shining out of Darkness 783 

Walking with God 785 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



CKANCH, CHKISTOPHER PEARSE. 

Born iu Alexandria, D. C, .March 8, 1813. 

Stanzas— Thought is Deeper 656 

CEASHAW, RICHARD. 

Born in Canibriiipesliire, Eng., about 1600; died in 1650. 

Song— To thy Lover 255 

Temperance, or the Cheap Physician 660 

On a Prayer-Book 750 

CRAWFORD, MRS. J. 

An Irish lady ; wrote for the " London New Monthly." 

We parted in Silence 298 

CROLY, GEORGE. 

Born in Dublin about 1785. 

Leonidas 352 

Pericles and Aspasia 352 

Dirge 762 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 

Born at Blackwood, Scotland, Dec. 17, 1784 ; died Dec. 29, 1842. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 85 

The Town Child and Country Child 127 

Thou hast Vowed by thy Faith, my Jeannie.. 266 

Gentle Hugh Herries 267 

My Nannie, 267 

Poefs Bridal-day Song 339 

Hame, Hame, Hame 374 

The Sun rises bright in France 374 

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM. 

Burn in Providence, R. I., in 1824. 

Egyptian Serenade 614 

DAMASCENUS, ST. JOANNES. (Gbeek.) 

Born in Damascus; died about 756. 

Hymn. {E. B. Browning^s translation.) 732 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY. 

Born at Cambridge, Mass,, Nov. 15, 1787. 

The little Beach-Bird 87 

DANIEL, SAMUEL. 

Born ill Somersetshire, Eng., in 1562 ; died Oct. 1619. 

Love is a Sickness 247 

DARLEY, GEORGE. 

Bom in Dublin in 1185 ; died in London in 1849. 

Song of the Summer Winds 81 

Gambols of Children 143 

Sylvia 280 

Love Song 280 

The Queen of May 615 

DAVIS, THOMAS. 

Born in Mallow, Ireland, in 1814 ; died in Dublin, Sept. 16, 1845. 

The Welcome 272 

DAVISON, FRANCIS. 

Born iu Norfolk, England, about 1575 ; died about 1618. 

Psalm XIII 774 

P.salm XXIII 776 

Psalm XXX 776 

DE VERE, AUBREY. 

Born in the county of Limerick, Ireland, Dec. 16, 1814, 

Early Friendship 179 

Song— Sing the old Song 281 

Sonnet 672 

DERZHAVIN, GAB'L ROMANOWITCH. (Russian.) 

Born in Kasan, Russia, July 3, 1743 ; died July 6, 1816. 

God. {J. Bowring^a translation.) 792 

DIBDIN, CHARLES. 

Bom at Southampton, England, in 1745 ; died in 1814. 

Tom Bowling 484 

DICKENS, CHARLES. 

Born at Portsmouth, England, Feb. T, 1812. 

Ivy Green 101 

DIMOND, WILLIAM. 

A theatrical manager ; born in Bnth, Eng. ; died in Paris, Oct. 
1837. 

The Mariners Dream 482 



DOBELL, SYDNEY. ^^* 

Born at Peckham Rye, England, in 1824. 

How's my Boy? 488 

DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. 

Born in London, June 26, 1702 ; died Oct., 1761. 

" Mark the Soft-falling Snow " 710 

For New Year's Day 718 

God in Nature 718 

Christ's Message 727 

Wilderness Transformed 770 

" How Gracious and how Wise " 786 

DOMMETT, ALFRED. 

Born in England about 1815 ; lives in New Zealand. 

Christmas Hymn 748 

DOWLAND, JOHN. 

An English musical composer; lived about 1600. 

Sleep 702 

DOWNING, MARY. 

Bom in Cork, Ireland, about 1830. 

Were I but His own Wife 271 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 

Born in New York, Aug. 7, 1795 ; died Sept., 1820. 

To Sarah 837 

American Flag 881 

The Culprit Fay 536 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 

Bom in Warwickshire, England, in 1563 ; died in 1631. 

Ballad of Agincourt 358 

DRUMMOND, WILLIAM. 

Bom in Scotland, Nov. 13, 1585 ; died Dec. 1649. 

Song — Phoebus arise 14 

To the Nightingale 53 

To the Redbreast 117 

Sonnet— I know that All 247 

Sonnets 654 

Sonnet— Of Mortal Glory 707 

Dedication of a Church 749 

DRYDEN, JOHN. 

Born in Northamptonshire, Eng., Aug. 9, 1631 ; died May 1, 1700. 

How Sweet it is to Love 256 

Alexander's Feast 609 

Music 611 

DUFFERIN, LADY. 

Formerly Mrs. Blackwood ; grand-daughter of R. B. Sheridan ; 
sister of Mrs. Norton ; born in Ireland about 1808. 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant 495 

DUNBAR, WILLIAM. 

Born in Scotland about 1465 ; died about 1530. 

All Earthly Joy returns in Pain 585 

DWIGHT, JOHN SULLIVAN. 

Born in Boston, Mass., May 13, 1813. 

Sweet is the Pleasure 656 

DYER, JOHN. 

Born in Wales in 1700 ; died in 1758. 

Grongar Hill 101 

EASTMAN, CHARLES G. 

Editor (in 1858) of " The Vermont Chronicle " at Burlmgton, Vt. 

A Snow storm 488 

Dirge 510 

ELLIOTT, EBENEZER, 

Born near Sheffield, Eng., March 17, 1781 ; died Dec. 1, 1849. 

The Bramble Flower 48 

Poet's Epitaph 517 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 

Bora in Boston, Mass., in 1803. 

The Ehodora 28 

To the Humble Bee 71 

The Snow Storm 116 

Threnody 171 

Good-bye 659 

Guy 660 

Each and All 6S7 

The Problem 689 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 

FENNEE, 0. a. 

Bom in Providence, R. I., Dec. 30, 1822; died m Cincinnati, 
Jan. 4, 1847. 

Gulf Weed 87 

FEKGUSON, SAMUEL. 

Born in the north of Ireland about 1805 — is a Barrister in Dublin. 

Forging of the Anchor 594 

FIELDS, JAMES T. 

Bom in Portsmouth, N. H., about 1815. 

Ballad of the Tempest 164 

Dirge for a Young Grirl 510 

FLETCHEE, GILES. 

Born m Kent, Engliind, about 1550 ; died in 1610. 

Panglory's Wooing Song 252 

FLETCHEE, PHINEAS. 

Born in London in 1584 ; died about 1650. 

Hymn — Drop, Drop, Slow Tears 742 

Psalm cxxx 780 

FOETUNATUS, VENANTIUS. (Latin.) 

Saint of the Latin Church ; bom near Venice in 530 ; died 
about 600. 

Passion Sunday. {Anonymous translation.) . . 729 
FEEILIGEATH, FEEDINAND. (Gbkman.) 

Born at Detmold, Germany, June 17, 1810. 

The Lion's Eide. {Anonymous translation.) . 74 
FEENEAU, PHILIP. 

Born in New York, Jan. 13, 1752 ; died Dec. 18, 1832. 

The Wild Honeysuckle 43 

FULCHEE, GEGEGE WILLIAMS. 

Died in Sudbury, England, in 1855. 

Dying Child 166 

GAY, JOHN. 

Born in Devonshire, England, in 1688 ; died Dec. 11, 1732. 

Black-Eyed Susan 218 

GEEHAED, PAUL. (German.) 

Born in Saxony in 1606 ; died June 7, 1676. 

Living by Christ. (J. Wesley's translation.) . . 740 
GILMAN, CAEOLINE. 

Born in Boston, Mass., in 1794. 

Annie in the Grave-yard 161 

GLAZIEE, W. B. 

Lives in Gardiner, Me. 

Cape Cottage at Sunset 183 

GLEN, WILLIAM. 

Lived in Scotland about 1760. 

Wae's Me for Prince Charlie 373 

GOETHE, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON. (German.) 

Born at Jjrankfort-on-the-Main, Aug. 29, 1749 ; died at Weimar, 
in 1832. ' 

The Minstrel. (Jl O. Mangan's translation.) 642 
GOLDSMITH, OLIVEE. 

Born in the county of Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1728 ; died 
April 4, 1774, 

The Hermit 216 

The Deserted Village 600 

GEANT, SIE EOBEET. 

Born in Scotland in 1785 ; died July 9, 1838. 

Liturgy 741 

GEAY, THOMAS. 

Born in London, Dec. 20, 1746 ; died July 30, 1771. 

Elegy written in a Country Church-yard 710 

GEEENE, EOBEET. 

Born at Norwich, England, about 1560; died Sept. 5, 1592. 

Philomela's Ode 256 

Song— Sweet are the Thoughts 650 

GEEGOEY THE GEEAT, ST. (Latin.) 

Born in Rome about 540 ; died 604. 

Darkness is Thinning. (J. M. Male's transla- 
tion.) 715 



HABINGTON, WILJLIAM, 

Born in Worcestershire, England, in 1605 ; died in 1645. 

Castara 

Night 



Page 



HALLECK, FITZ-GEEENE. 

Born at Guilford, Coun., in Aug. 1795. 

Marco Bozzaris 



891 



HAMILTON, WILLIAM. 

Born at Bangour, Scotland, in 1704 ; died in 1754. 

Braes of Yarrow 450 

HAET, JOSEPH. 

An English Dissenting Clergyman ; lived in London in 1759. 

Gethsemane 729 

HAETE, WALTEE. 

Born in 1700 ; died in Wales in 1774. 

Soliloquy 71 

HEBEE, EEGINALD. 

Bom in Cheshire, England, April 21, 1783 ; died April 3, 1826. 

If thou wert by my Side 337 

Epiphany 725 

Missionary Hymn 753 

Thou art gone to the Grave 761 

HEINE, HEINEICH. (German.) 

Bern at Dusseldorf, Germany, Jan. 1, 1800 ; died in 1856. 

" Calm is the Night." {Leland's translation.) 518 

The Lorelei. {0. P. CrancKs translation.). . . 547 

The Water Fay. {Lelancfs translation.) 547 

The Fisher's Cottage. {Leland's translation.) 590 

HEMANS, FELICIA. 

Born in Liverpool, England, Sept. 25, 1794 ; died May 18, 1835. 

Willow Song 69 

The Wandering Wind 82 

The Adopted Child 157 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 378 

Casablanca 389 

Dirge 511 

HEEBEET, GEOEGE. 

Born in Wales, April 3, 1593 ; died in Feb. 1632. 

Man 694 

Virtue 699 

Easter 731 

The Call 733 

The Odor 734 

Complaining. 735 

The Flower 736 

HEEEICK, EOBEET. 

Born in London m 1591 ; date of deatb unknown. 

To Violets 36 

To Primroses 37 

To Blossoms 37 

To Daffodils 37 

To Meadows 94 

Mrs. Eliz. Wheeler 251 

Night Piece 253 

Gathering Eose-buds 330 

The Hag 405 

Dirge of Jephthah's Daughter 508 

Delight in Disorder 615 

Upon Julia's Eecovery. 617 

To Perilla 667 

The White Island 679 

To keep a true Lent 746 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 758 

HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 

Lived in England, under Queen Elizabeth and Charles I. 

Song— The Lark 20 

Search after God 784 

HILL, THOMAS. 

Born in New Brunswick, N. J., Jan. 7, 1818. 

The Bobolink 23 

HOFFMAN, CHAELES FENNO. 

Born in New York m 1806. 

Sparkling and Bright 184 



XX INDEXOF 

Page 
HOGG, JAMES. 

Born Hi Ktinok, Scotland, Jan. 25, 1772; died Nov. 21, 1S35. 

The Lark 20 

The Moon was a Waning 484 

Kilmeny o31 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 

i>,.iii ai Cambridge, .Mass., Aug. 29, 1809. 

The Old Constitution 383 

The Steamboat 592 

The Last Leaf. 669 

HOLTY; LUDWIG. (German.) 

Born acar Hann-er, Germany, Dec. 21, 1748 ; died Dec. 1, 1776. 

Winter Song. {C. T. Brooke's translation.).. 116 

HOOD, THOMAS. 

Born iu LoDdon in 1798 ; died May 3, 1845. 

Flowers 45 

Autumn 100 

To a Child embracing his Mother 130 

To my Daughter 189 

I Remember, I Remember 159 

Fair Ines 268 

Ruth 275 

Serenade 276 

Ballad— Not in Winter 278 

Ballad-Sigh on, Sad Heart 293 

Faithless Nellv Gray 429 

Faithless Sally Brown 429 

A Table of Errata 430 

Lady at Sea 432 

Dream of Eugene Aram 485 

Bridge of Sighs 496 

Song of the Shirt 497 

The Death-bed 500 

The Water Lady 547 

Song— A Lake and a Fairy Boat 548 

Song— O, Lady, Leave 619 

Ode to Melancholy 662 

HORACE. (Latin.) 

Born in Apulia, Dec. S, b. c, 65 ; died Nov. 27, b. c. 8. 

To Thaliarchus. (J)ry den's translation.) 259 

HOWE, JULIA WARD. 

Born in New- York about 1820. 

The Dead Christ 742 

HOWITT, MARY. 

Born at Utt<ixeter, England, about 1800. 

Little Streams 83 

Broom Flower 42 

Summer Woods 68 

Cornfields 95 

Little Children 140 

Fairies of Caldon Low 535 

HOWITT, WILLIAM. 

Born ill Derbyshire, England, in 1795. 

Departure of the Swallow 110 

HOYT, RALPH. 

Born in New York about 1812. 

Old 667 

HUGO, VICTOR. (Feench.) 

Bom at Btsan^on, France, Feb. 26, 1802. 

The Djinns. (0' Sullivan's translation.) 581 

HUNT, LEIGH. 

Born in Middlesex, England, Oct. 19, 1784. 

Chorus of Flowers 46 

Grasshopper and Cricket 71 

To J. H.— Four years old 131 

To a Child during Sickness 132 

The Nun 284 

Jenny kissed Me 292 

Abou Ben Adhem 591 

HUNTER, ANNE. 

Born ill Scotland in 1742 ; died in 1821. 

Indian Death-song 877 

HYSLOP, JAMES. 

Bom in Scotland, July, 1798 ; died Dec. 4, 1827. 

Cameronian's Dream 867 



AUTHORS. 



Page 
INGRAM, JOHN KELLS. 

Born in Ireland about 1820 ; is a Fellow of Trin. Coll., Dublin. 

The Memory of the Dead 398 

JONES, ERNEST. 

A leading Chartist ; lives in England. 

Moonrise j^yj 

JONES, SIR WILLIAM. 

Born in London, Sept. -28, 1746 ; died April 27, 1794. 

Ode— What Constitutes a State 394 

JONSON, BEN. 

Born in London, June 11, 1574; died Aug. 16, 1637. 

To Cynthia jqj 

Triumph of Charis 248 

Discourse with Cupid .'*.'. 249 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H ."."...'.. ' " .' ' ' ." 512 

Song— The Fairy Beam upon You ........ 546 

Song ■ ■ ■ n^K 

Ode— To Himself. '.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'. 025 

KEATS, JOHN. 

Born in London in 1796 ; died Feb. 24, 1821. 

Nature and the Poets. 49 

Ode to a Nightingale '..'.'.'......'.'. 54 

Hymn to Pan ".*"!.!!!.!!!.!!' 66 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket. ............ 71 

To Autumn ' 99 

Fancy '.V.. '.'.'.'..'.'.'.'.'.'.. Ill 

Eve of St. Agnes ' 220 

Fairy Song .*.*.!.'..!.!....'. 529 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 530 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 624 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer .' 639 

Ode— Bards of Passion 641 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 645 

Robin Hood 677 

KEBLE, JOHN. 

Vicar of Hursley, near Winchester, England ; bom about 1800. 

Apdl 12 

The Elder Scripture 713 

St. Peter's Day [[[ 744 

Is This a Time to Plant and Build ?...','. . . .... 748 

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. 

Bom in London about 1811. 

Absence 283 

KENYON, JOHN. 

Died in London in 1857. 

Champagne Ros6 185 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. 

Born about 1790 ; died at Baltimore, Jan. 11, 1843. 

Star-spangled Banner 380 

KING, HENRY. 

Bishop of Chichester, England, bom in 1591 ; died in 1669. 

Life 707 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 

Born in Devonshire, England, June 12, 1819. 

Song— O, Mary, Go and Call the Cattle Home. 457 
The Fishermen 473 

KORNER, KARL THEODOR. (German.) 

Born in Dresden, Sept. 23, 1791 ; died Aug. 26, 1813. 

Korner's Sword Song. {Chorley's translation.) 384 
LAMB, CHARLES. 

Born in London, Feb. 18, 1775 ; died Dec. 27, 1S34. 

The Christening 124 

The Gipsey's Malison 130 

Childhood 159 

Old Familiar Faces 183 

Farewell to Tobacco 426 

Hypochondriacus 426 

Hester 501 

Lines on a Celebrated Picture 728 

LAMB, MARY. 

Born in London in 1765 ; died May 20, 1847. 

Choosing a Name 124 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 4 

Born in Warwickshire, England, in 1775. 

The Brier 44 

Children 133 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Pi.ge 

Maid's Lament. 292 

Iphio:enia and Agamemnon 470 

To Macaulay 641 

One Gray Hair 667 

LEONID AS, OF ALEXANDEIA. (Greek.) 

Burn in tlif year 59 ; died in l-'9. 

On the Picture of an Infant. (Rogers's trans- 
lation.) 125 

LOGAN, JOHN. 

Born in Scotland in 1748 ; died in Dec. 1788. 

To the Cuckoo 24 

Song — Yarrow Stream 452 

Heavenly Wisdom 694 

LONGFELLOW, HENEY WADSWOETH. 

Born ill Purlland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807. 

Flowers 47 

Eain in Summer 79 

Twilight 85 

Seaweed 86 

Woods in Winter 115 

Afternoon in February 117 

The Open Window 168 

The Fire of Driftwood 182 

Excelsior 396 

Wreck of the Hesperus 481 

Warden of the Cinque Ports 515 

The Village Blacksmith 592 

The Arsenal at Springfield 597 

The Light of Stars 698 

The Slave Singing at Midnight 701 

Psalm of Life. . . ? 706 

The Footsteps of Angels 706 

LOVELACE, EICHAED. 

Burn in Kent, Engliind, in 1618 ; died in 1658. 

To Lucasta 253 

To Althea, from Prison 254 

To Lucasta 254 

Song — Strive not. Vain Lover 288 

Orpheus to the Beasts 305 

LOVEE, SAMUEL. 

Born in Dublin in 1797. 

The Angel's Whisper 126 

Eory O'More 289 

Molly Carew 290 

Widow Machree 291 

LOWELL, JAMES EUSSELL. 

Born at Cambridge, Mass., Feb. v2, 1819. 

The Fountain 32 

To the Dandelion 44 

The Birch Tree 67 

Summer Storm 77 

To a Pine Tree 114 

She Came and Went 168 

My Love 277 

What Mr. Eobinson Thinks 441 

Ehoecus 566 

Hebe 616 

LOWELL, MAEIA WHITE. 

Bern at Wat.-rU.wn, Mass., July 8, 1821 ; died Oct. 27, 1853. 

Morning-Glory 168 

LUTHEE, MAETIN. (German.) 

Bora at Kisleben, Saxony, Nuv. 10, 14-3; died Feb. IS, 1546. 

A Safe Stronghold. {T. CarlyWs translation.) 783 
LYLY, JOHN. 

K. Til in Kent, Eng'aijd, abnnt 1554; died about 1600. 

Cupid and Campaspe 249 

LYTTON, EOBEET BULWEE, 

Only son >fSirE. Hulwer Lytl..n, published " Clytemnestra 
and oilier Poems" in 1654, under the name of Owen Meredith. 

Changes 320 

MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON. 

Be.rn at Koihley Temple, England, in 1800. 

Horatius 343 

Ivry 360 

Naseby 362 

McCAETHY, DENNIS FLOEENCE. 

Born in Cork, Irelail*!, about 1810. 

Summer Longings 16 

Irish Melody 271 



MACKAY, CHAELES. ^"^^ 

Born nl Perth, Scotland, in 1812. 

Child and the Mourners 161 

Under the Holly Bough 195 

What Might be Done 196 

The Good Time Coming. 684 

MACLEAN, L. E. (Miss Landon.) 

Born at Chelsea, Eng., in 1S02 ; died in Africa, Oct. 16, 1838. 

The Shepherd Bov 142 

Little Eed Eidins:'Hood 143 

Night at Sea. ...\ 192 

Awakening of Endymion 281 

McMASTEE, GUY HUMPHEEY. 

Born at Bath, Steuben County, N. Y., in 1829. 

Carmen Bellicosum 379 

MACNIEL, HECTOE. 

Born at Rosebank, Scotland, Oct. 22, 1746 ; died March 15, 1818. 

Mary of Castle Gary. , 229 

MAGINN, WILLIAM. 

Born in Cork, Ireland, about 1793 ; died Aug. 20, 1842. 

St. Patrick, of Ireland, my Dear 435 

The Irishman 436 

MALLETT, DAVID. 

Born in Scotland about 1700 ; died April 21, 1765. 

A Funeral Hymn 505 

MAELOWE, CHEISTOPHEE. 

Born at Canterbury, England, Feb. 26, 1564 ; d. June 16, 1593. 

Milk-Maid's Song. 258 

MAEVELL, ANDEEW. 

Born at Kingston-upon-HuU, England, Nov. 15, 1620; died 
Aug. 16, 1678. 

A Drop of Dew 14 

The Garden 60 

The Lover to the Glow-worms 251 

Horatian Ode 363 

The Nymph Complaining 494 

Emigrants in Bermudas 745 

MASSEY, GEEALD. 

Born near Tring, England, in May, 18-28. 

The Men of Forty-eight 393 

MENDOZA, LOPE DE. (Spanish.) 

Born in Corrion de los Condes, Spain, Aug. 19, 1398; died 
March 26, 1458. 

Serrano. ( T. Boscoe's translation.) 229 

MEECEE, MAEGAEET. 

Born at Annapolis, Md., in 1791 ; d. at Belmont. Va., Sept. 
19, 1847. 

Exhortation to Prayer 754 

MEEEDITH, GEOEGE. 

Lives at Weybridge, England ; published a volume of Poems 
in 1851. 

Love in the Valley 236 

MEEEICK, JAMES. 

Born in England in 17-:0: died in 1769. 

Psalm XXIII 776 

MESSINGEE, EOBEET HINCKLEY. 

Born in Boston about 1807. 

Give me the Old 184 

MILLEE, THOMAS. 

Bom in Gainsborough, England, Aug. 31, 1809. 

To George M 185 

The Grave of a Poetess 640 

The Happy Valley 680 

MILLIKEN, EICHAED ALFEED. 

Born in the Cc nnty of Cork, Ireland, in 1757 ; died in 1815. 

Groves of Blarney 436 

MILMAN, HENEY HAET. 

Born in London, Feb. 10, 1791. 

Bridal Song 330 

Hymn — When our Heads 741 

Hymn — Brother, thou art Gone 761 

Chorus 787 

MILNES, EICHAED MONCKTON. 

Born in Yorksliire, England, in 1809. 

The Brook-Side 278 



xxu 



INDEX OF AUTHOKS. 



Page 

MILTON, JOHN. 

Born in London, Dec. 9, 1608 ; died Nov. 8, 1674. 

On a May Morning 14 

To the Nightingale 58 

Sonnets 865 

Lycidas 502 

Comus, a Mask ♦ 550 

Epitaph on Shakespeare 623 

L'Allegro 646 

II Penseroso 648 

Sonnets 676 

On the Nativity 722 

MOIR, DAYID MACBETH. 

Bom at Musselburgh, Scotland, Jan. 5, 1798; died July 6, 1851. 

Casa "Wappy : 174 

MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER. 

Born in Ayrshire, Scotland, before 1550; died about 1611. 

Night is Nigh Gone 16 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 

Born at Irvine, Scotland, Nov. 4, 1771 ; died April 30, 1854. 

To a Daisy 39 

Evening in the Alps 106 

Reign of Christ on Earth 728 

Gethsemane 780 

Stranger and his Friend 733 

Humility 748 

Field of the World 752 

What is Prayer 753 

Charity 756 

The Lord the Good Shepherd 772 

" Thou, God, seest me " 789 

Time Past, Time Passing, Time to Come 791 

MOORE, CLEMENT C. 

Bom in New York, July 15, 1779. 

Yisit from St. Nicholas 147 

MOORE, THOMAS. 

Bora in Dublin, May 28, 17T9 ; died Feb. 25, 1852. 

The Last Rose of Summer 97 

Wreathe the Bowl 185 

Fill the Bumper Fair 186 

And doth not a Meeting like This 186 

Come send round the Wine 187 

Friend of my Soul 188 

Farewell ! but whenever youWelcome the Hour 188 

Go where Glory waits thee ! 269 

Fly to the Desert 269 

Fly not Yet 286 

The Harp that Once through Tara's Halls 374 

Song 374 

Peace to the Slumberers 375 

1 Breathe not his Name 506 

Those Evening Bells 608 

Canadian Boat Song 614 

Arranmore 681 

MORE, HENRY. 

Born at Grantham, England, in 1614 ; died in 1687 

Philosopher's Devotion 716 

Charity and Humility 747 

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 

Bom in Glasgow, in 1797 ; died in 1835. 

They Come, the Merry Summer Months 17 

The Water ! The Water 33 

Midni^jht Wind 112 

The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, Mary 307 

Jeanie Morrison 308 

My Ucid is like to Rend, Willie 309 

Cavalier's Song 359 

Covenanter's Battle-chant 366 

When I beneath the cold, red Earth am Sleeping 517 

MOULTRIE, JOHN. 

A Clergj-man of the Church of England ; bom in Eng. in 1799. 

The Three Sons 169 

MUELLER, WILHELM. (German.) 

Bom at Dessau, Geraiany, Oct 7, 1794; died Oct. 1, 1827. 

The Sunken City. {Mangan^s translation.). . 659 
NEELE, HENRY. 

Born in London in 1798 ; died (by his own hand) Feb. 7, 1828. 

Moan, moan, ye Dying Gales 86 



NEWTON, JOHN. ^^^* 

Born in London in 1725; died there in 1807. 

Weeping Mary 731 

Jesus 737 

NOEL, T. 

Author of " RhjTnes and Roundelays," London, 1841. 

The Pauper's Drive 500 

NORRIS, JOHN. 

Born in England, 1657 ; diid in 1711. 

Superstition 255 

The Reply 650 

NORTON, CAROLINE. 

Born at Hampton Court, England, in 1808. 

To Ferdinand Seymour 124 

Mother's Heart 136 

We have been Friends together 183 

Allan Percy 320 

Love Not 329 

The King of Denmark's Ride 478 

OGILVIE, JOHN. 

Born in Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1733 ; died in 1814. 

Hymn from Psalm CXLYIII 780 

O'KEEFE, JOHN. 

Born in Dublin, June 24, 1747 ; died Feb. 4, 1833. 

I am a Friar of Orders Gray 669 

ORLEANS, CHARLES, Dtike of. (Fbench.) 

Born in Paris, May 26, 1391 ; died Jan. 4, 1465. 

Fairest thing in Mortal Eyes. (^E. Gary's 
translation) 328 

PARSONS, THOMAS WILLLAM. 

Born in Boston, Mass., Aug. 18, 1819. 

Song for September 93 

Saint Peray 191 

The Groomsman to his Mistress 283 

On a Bust of Dante 395 

On a Lady Singing 613 

PERCIYAL, JAMES GATES. 

Bom in Berlin, Conn., Sept. 15, 1795 ; died Mav 2, 1856. 

May 15 

The Coral Grove 88 

To Seneca Lake 89 

It is Great for our Country to Die 351 

PERCY, THOMAS. 

Born in Shropshire, Eng., In 1728 ; died as Bishop of Dromore, 
Ireland, in 1811. 

Friar of Orders Gray. 213 

PHILOSTRATUS. (Geeek.) 

Born in Lemnos, Greece, about 1&2. 

To Celia. (B. Jonson''8 translation.) 249 

PIERPONT, JOHN. 

Born at Litchfield, Conn., April 6, 1785. 

My Child 175 

Centennial Ode 752 

PINKNEY, EDWARD COATES. 

Born in London, Oct., 1802 ; died in Baltimore, April 11, 1828. 

Serenade 276 

A Health 279 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN. 

Bom in Baltimore, Jan., 1811 ; died Oct. 7, 1849. 

Annabel Lee 323 

The Raven 578 

The Bells 607 

POPE, ALEXANDER. 

Born in London, JNlay •j2, 1688 ; died May 30, 1744. 

The Rape of the Lock 406 

Messiah 726 

Dying Christian to his Soul 759 

Universal Prayer 788 

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. 

Bom in London in 1802 ; died July 15, 1639. 

Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine .j^. . . 440 

PRINGLE, THOMAS. 

Born at Blacklaw, Scotland, Jan. 5, 1789 ; died Dec. 5, 1834. 

Afar in the Desert 75 

The Lion and G iraffe 75 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 

PEOUT, FATHER. (Francis Mahony.) 

Born in Iieliind aliuiit ISOo. 

Town of Passage 437 

The Bells of Shandon 606 

PEUDENTIUS, AUEELIUS. (Latin.) 

Bon. in Spain, 34S. 

Each Sorrowful Mourner. {J. M. NeaWs trans- 
lation.) 764 

QUAELES, FEANCIS. 

Born at Stewards, near Ruuiford, Eug., in 1592 ; d. Sept. 8, 1644. 

Sonnets. 735 

Fasting 746 

Delight in God only -. . . 790 

QUAELES, JOHN. 

Son of t'lancis Quarles; born in Esses, England, in 1624; died 
of the Plague in 1665. 

Divine Ejaculation 788 

RALEIGH. SIE WALTEE. 

Born in budley, England, in 1552; beheaded Oct. 29, 1618. 

Milkmaid's Mother's Answer 258 

EAMSAY, ALLAN. 

Born in Cniwturd, Scotland, in 16S5 ; died in 1758. 

Lochaber no More 368 

RANDOLPH, THOMAS. 

Born in Badby, England, iu 1605 ; died March 11, 1634. 

Song of Fairies 530 

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 

Born in Chester county, Penn., March 12, 1822. 

Autumn's Sighing 100 

The Windy Night 112 

EOBEETS, SAEAH. 

Bom in Portsmouth, N. H., lives iu one of the Western 
States. 

The Yoice of the Grass 59 

EONSAED, PIEEEE. (Feench.) 

Born in Vendomo.s, France, in 1524; died in 1585. 

Return of Spring. {Anonymous translation.) 10 
ROSCOE, WILLIAM, 

Bom at Mount Pleasant, near Li^rpool, 1T53; di€d June 
3U, 1831. 

On the Death of Burns 635 

ROSCOE, WILLIAM STANLEY. 

Born in England iu 1782 ; died October, 1843. 

Dirge 509 

BALIS, JOHANN GAUDENZ YON. (Geeman.) 

Born in Grisons, Switzerland, in 1762. 

Song of the Silent Land. {Longfellow's trans.) 498 
SANDYS, GEORGE. 

Born in BishuiJSthorpe, England, 1677 ; d. in Kent, March, 1648. 

Psalm LXYI 778 

Psalm XCII 779 

Psalm CXL VIII 781 

SAPPHO. (Geeek.) 

Born in Lesbos in the sixth century before Christ. 

Blest as the Immortal Gods. {A. Phillips'' 
translation.) 260 

SCHILLER, FREDERIC. (Geeman.) 

Born in Marbach, Germany, Nov. 10, 1759 ; died May 9, 1805. 

Indian Death Song. {Frothingham's trans.).. 378 
SCOTT, SIR WALTER 

Born in Edinburgh, Aug. 15, 1771 ; died Sept. 21, 1832. 

Jock of Hazeldean 234 

Lochinvar 235 

Song— The Heath this Night 262 

Song 300 

Border Ballad 372 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 373 

Coronach 506 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 745 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 

Born in Stratford-on-Avon, England about April 23, 1564; died 
April 2:5, 1616. 

Morning 18 

Song— The Greenwood Tree 60 



► Page 

Blow, blow thou Winter Wind 113 

Sonnets 241 

Take, O take those Lips Away 251 

Come away, Death 257 

Crabbed Age and Youth 284 

Dirge of Imogen 507 

Song of the Fairy 529 

Ariel's Songs 546 

Influence of Music 611 

Who is Sylvia? 617 

SHEA, JOHN AUGUSTUS. 

Born in Cork, Ireland, Nov. 1802; died in Suffleld, Conn., 
Aug. 15, 1845. 

The Ocean 83 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 

Born in Field Place, England, Aug. 4, 1792 ; died July 8, 1822. 

To the Skylark 18 

Arethusa 31 

The Question 35 

The Cloud 80 

Ode to the West Wind 82 

Autumn, a Dirge 99 

Dirge for the Year 118 

Lines to an Indian Air 260 

Love's Philosophy 261 

To 261 

Lament 518 

To Constantia Singing. 613 

An Exhortation 645 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 655 

MutabUity 673 

SHENSTONE, WILLIAM. 

Born in Hales-Owen, England, in 1714; died Feb. 11, 1763. 

The Schoolmistress 149 

SHIRLEY, J^MES. 

Born in London, about 1594; died Oct. 29, 1666. 

Victorious Men of Earth 597 

Death's final Conquest 699 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 

Born in Penshurst, England, Nov. 29, 1554; died Oct. 7, 1586. 

Sonnets 246 

SIMMONS, B. 

Author of " Legends, Lyrics and other Poems," Edinb'h, 1843. 

Stanzas to the Memory of Thomas Hood 516 

SIMONIDES. (Greek.) 

Born in Julis, island of Cos, b. c. 554; died b. c. 469. 

Danae. {S. Peter'' 8 translation.) 156 

SKELTON, JOHN. 

Born in Cumberland, England, toward the latter part of the 15th 
century; died June 21, 1529. 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey 616 

SMITH, CHARLOTTE. 

Born in Sussex, England, in 1749 ; died in 1806. 

The Nightingale's Departure 58 

SMITH, HORACE. 

Born in London, Dec. 31, 1779 ; died July 12, 1839. 

Hymn to the Flowers 48 

On the Death of George the Third 514 

Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition 589 

SMITS, DIRK. (Dtttch.) 

Bom in Rotterdam, June 20, 1702; died April 25, 1752. 

On the Death of an Infant. {Anonymous 
translation.) 166 

SOUTHEY, CAROLINE B. 

Bom in England, Dec. 6, 1786 ; died July 20, 1854. 

Autumn Flowers 96 

The Pauper's Death-bed 498 

The Last Journey 499 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 

Born in Bristol, England, Aug. 12, 1774; died March 21, 1843. 

The Holly Tree 114 

The Incheape Rock 480 

Battle of Blenheim • 596 

SOUTHEY, R. and C. 

Greenwood Shrift 702 



XXIV 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Page 

SPENCER, ROBERT WILLIAM. 

born 111 Kiigland in I"1u ; died 1S34. 

" Too late I staid " 286 

SPENSER, EDMUND. 

boro in Lo idun in 1553 ; died Jan. 16, 1599. 

Epitbalaraion 830 

STANLEY, THOMAS. 

born atCunibtrlow Green, Eng., in 1625 ; died April 12, 1678. 

The Tomb 257 

The Exequies 258 

STERLING, JOHN. 

Born 111 Kamea Ciistle, Scotland, July 20, 1806; died Sept. 
18,1844. 

The Spice Tree 72 

The Husbandman 95 

To a Child 135 

Rose and the Gauntlet 310 

The Two Oceans 590 

Shakespeare 624 

STERNHOLD, THOMAS. 

born in Hampshire, England ; died Aug. 1549. 

Psalm XVIII. Part first 774 

STILL, JOHN. 

Born in Giantbatn, England, in 1543; died in 1607. 

Good Ale 402 

STODDARD, LAVINIA. 

Bom in Guillord, Conn., June 29, 1787 ; died in 1820. 

Soul's Defiance 672 

STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. 

Born in Hinghani, Mass., July, lt>25. 

The Sea 478 

The Two Brides 619 

There are Gains for all our Losses 6T2 

STODDART, THOMAS T. 

Author of " Songs and Poems," Edinburgh, 1839. 

The Angler's Trysting Tree 20 

STORY, WILLIAM W. 

Born in Sulem, Mass., Feb. 19, 1819- 

The Violet 45 

SUCKLING, SIR JOHN. 

Born in Whitfon, England, in 1609; died May 7, 1641. 

Song— Why so Pale 285 

SURREY, LORD. 

Born in England about 1516; died Jan. 21, 1547. 

Description of Spring 10 

The Means to attain Happy Life 666 

SURVILLE, CLOTILDE DE. (French.) 

Bom in V.illon-sur-Ardec)ie, France, about 1405 ; died in 1495. 

The Child Asleep. {Longfellow's translation.') 127 
SWAIN, CHARLES. 

bora in Manchester, England, in 1803. 

Love's History d. . . 323 

SYLVESTER, JOSHUA. 

l;orn in England in 1563 ; died in 1618. 

Contented Mind 650 

TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 

born in laisley, Scotland, June 3, X'.'.i; died May 17, 1810. 

Midges Dance above the Burn 81 

Flower o' Dumblane 266 

TATE AND BRADY. 

Nahum Txte, born in Dublin in 1652; died Aug. 12, 1715; 
Brady, horn in bandon, Ireland, Oct. 28, 1659 ; died May 20, 1726. 

Psalm C 779 

TAYLOR, BAYARD. 

Born in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, Jan. 11, 1825. 

The Arab to the Palm 73 

Storm Song 85 

The Phantom 511 

Hylas 563 

TAYLOR, JEREMY. 

Born in Cambridge, England, in 1613 ; died Aug. 13, 1667. 

Of Heaven 769 



Page 

TENNYSON, ALFRED. 

Born ill Lincolnshire, England, in 1810. 

Spring 11 

Song of the Brook 34 

Bugle Song 108 

Evening 104 

Song— The Owl 109 

Second Song, to the same 109 

Lullaby 123 

The Reconciliation 176 

Widow and Child 176 

From " In Memoriam" 179 

Dav Dream 227 

Lady Clare 237 

Dora. 238 

The Letters 240 

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal 273 

Shepherd's Idyl 273 

Come into the Garden, Maud 274 

Miller's Daughter 277 

Ask me no More 296 

Mariana in the South 299 

Locksley Hall 301 

O, that it were Possible 306 

My Love has talked 336 

Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava 886 

The May Queen 490 

Dirge 50T 

Break, Break, Break 520 

Days that are no More 520 

Lady of Shallott 545 

Contemplate all this Work 683 

The Strife 700 

Christmas 743 

Mary 755 

O yet we Trust- 755 

TERRY, ROSE. 

Born in Hartford, Conn., where she now lives. 

Trailing Arbutus 38 

Reve Du Midi. 65 

Then 316 

Fishing Song 519 

TERSTEEGEN, GERHARD. (German.) 

Born in Westphalia, in 1697 ; was a ribbon ^veaver. 

Divine Love. (J» Wesley's translation.) 757 

Hymn of Praise. (J. Weslet/s translation.). . 772 

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. 

Born in Calcutta in 1811. 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse 189 

The Mahogany Tree 194 

At the Church Gate 275 

White Squall 482 

Molony's Lament 488 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 439 

Age of Wisdom 666 

End of the Play 670 

THURLOW, LORD. 

Born in Little Ashfield, England, in 1732 ; died Sept. 12, 1826. 

Song to May 15 

Sonnet— Autumn Morn 108 

Sonnet— To a Bird that Hauntod Lake Laaken 116 

To a very Illustrious Nobleman 894 

Sonnet — Immortal Beauty 616 

Sonnet— The Nightingale is Mute 641 

Sonnet— Who Best can Paint 642 

Sonnet— If Outward Accident 653 

TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE. 

Born in Farnhain, England, in 1140; died Aug. 11, 1778. 

Prayer, Living and Dying 786 

TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX. 

Born ill England, Sept. 9, 18U7. 

Harmosan 587 

Be Patient 686 

TUCKERMAN, HENRY T. 

Born in boston, Mass., April 20, 1813. 

Desolation 519 

UHLAND, LUDWIG. (German.) 

Born in Tiibingen, Germany, April v'6, 1787. 

The Passage. {Anonymous translation.) 182 

The Castle by the Sea. {Longfellow's tram.). 519 
The Lost Church, {J. C. Mangan's trans.). . . 688 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXV 



Page 

VAUGHAN HENET. 

BoFD iu Newton, England, in 1621 ; died in 1695. 

Early Rising and Prayer 715 

The Bee 717 

The Feast 734 

They are all Gone 764 

Peace 769 

VERY, JONES. 

Born iti S:ilcni, Mass., about 1812. 

Nature 35 

The Latter Eain 100 

The World 686 

Spirit Land 716 

VICENTE, GIL. (Portugfese.) 

Born in P..rtiigiil, ab.'Ut 148-^ ; died about 1537. 

The Nightingale. {J. Bowring's translation.) 57 
She is a^Maid. {Lon 0/611010" s translation.).. . 276 

VILLEGAS, MANUEL DE. 

Born in Najeru, Sj^iain, iu 1598 ; died in 1669. 

The Mother Nightingale. ( T. Eoscoe's trans- 
lation.) 57 

VISSCHEE, MAEIA TESSELSCHADE. (Dutch.) 

Burn iu Amsterdam, in 1594 ; died June 20, 1649. 

The Nightingale. {J. Botcring's translation.) 57 
WALLEE, EDMUND. 

Born in C^lesliill, England, March 3, 1605 ; died Oct. 21, 1687. 

The Eose 45 

WALLEE, JOHN FEANCIS. 

A Barrister of Dublin ; born about 1810. 

Spinning- Wheel Song 231 

WALTON, ISAAK. 

Born in Stafitbrd, England, Ang. 9, 1593 ; died Dec. 15, 1683. 

The Angler's Wish 23 

WAETON, THOMAS. 

Bom in Basingstoke, England, in 1728 ; died May 21, 1790. 

Inscription in a Hermitage 64 

WASTELL, SIMON. 

Born iu Westmoreland, England, about 1560; died about 1630. 

Man's Mortality 707 

WATSON, THOMAS. 

Boni iu London ; died in 1591 or 1592. 

Canzonet 253 

WATTS, ISAAC. 

Born in Southampton, England, July 17, 1674 ; d. Nov. 25, 1748. 

Praise for Creation and Providence 720 

Sun, Moon, and Stars, praise ye the Lord 720 

Sincere Praise 721 

Christ Dying, Rising, and Eeigning 730 

Example of^Christ 737 

Love 755 

Heavenly Canaan 765 

" When I can Eead my Title Clear " 769 

Psalm XIX 775 

Psalm XLVI 777 

Psalm XLV. Second Part 778 

Psalm LXXII. First Part 779 

Psalm CX VII 780 

Creator and Creatures 782 

WELBY, AMELIA B. 

B..n. in St. Michaels, Maryland, in 18il. 

The Old Maid 620 

WESLEY, CHAELES. 

Born in Lincolnshire, England, in 1708 ; died in 1788. 

" Jesus, lover of my Soul "' 738 

" Eternal Beam of Light Divine " 739 

Jesus, mv Strength, my Hope 739 

" Friend of All " 740 

True Use of Music 751 

For Believers 756 

For those that Wait for full Eedemption 756 

Desiring to Love 757 

Death 762 

Psalm XX 775 

Thou God Unsearchable 791 



WESTWOOD, THOMAS. ^^^^ 

Author of "Berries and Blossoms," — London, 1850. 

Under my Window 159 

Little Belle 163 

WHITE, BLANCO. 

Bom in Spain, about 1773 ; died in England, May 20, 1840. 

To Night 109 

WHITE, HENEY KIEKE. 

Born in Nottingham, March 21, 1785 ; died Oct. 19, 1806. 

To the Harvest Moon 108 

Solitude 518 

WHITTIEE, JOHN GEEENLEAF. 

Born in Haverhill, Mass., in 1808. 

Hampton Beach 88 

Maud Muller 311 

Our State 382 

Ichabod 512 

Barclay of Ury 586 

To my Sister 619 

Burns 638 

Seed-Time and Harvest 695 

WILDE, EICHAED HENEY. 

Born in Dublin, Sept. 24, 1789 ; d. in N. Orleans, Sept. 10, 1847. 

Stanzas, My Life is Like 673 

WILLIAMS, EOBEET FOLKSTONE. 

Author of "^akespeare and his Friends," — London, 1838. 

O, fill the Wine-cup High 190 

WILLIAMSON, W. C. 

Born in Belfast, Me., Jan. 31, 1831. 

It Might have Been 297 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PAEKEE. 

Born in Portland, Me., Jan. 20, 18U7. 

Belfry Pigeon 69 

Saturday Afternoon 148 

The Annoyer 289 

WILLMOTT, EOBEET AEIS. 

Author of various Religious Works ; also of " Poems," — Lon- 
don, 1850. 

Child Praying 164 

WILSON, JOHN. 

Born in Paisley, Scotland, in 1788 ; died April 4, 1854. 

To a Sleeping Child 133 

WINSLOW, HAEEIET. 

Born in Portland, Me., about 1824. 

Why thus Longing 675 

WITHEE, GEOEGE. 

Born in Bentworth, England, June 11, 1588 ; died May 2, 1667. 

Christmas 195 

Shepherd's Eesolution 285 

The Nymph's Song 622 

The Shepherd's Hunting 625' 

In a Clear Starry Night 721 

Twelfth Day, or the Epiphany 727 

Hymn-»-For Anniversary Marriage Days 748 

For a Widower or Widow 763 

Poet's Hymn for Himself 773 

Praise 773 

WOLFE, CHAELES. 

Born in Dublin, Dec. 14, 1791 ; died Feb. 21, 1823. 

Burial of Sir John Moore 514 

Song— say not that my Heart 674 

WOODWOETH, SAMUEL. 

Bom in Scituate, Mass., Jan. 13, 1785 ; died Dec. 9, 1842. 

The Bucket 598 

WOEDSWOETH, WILLIAM. 

Born in Cockermouth, Eng., April 7, 1770; died April 23, 1S50. 

March 11 

Morning in London 17 

The Cuckoo 24 

The Green Linnet 30 

To the Small Celandine .♦ 36 



XXVI 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 

Daffodils 87 

To the Daisy 40 

To the same Flower 40 

Nightingale and the Dove 55 

Yarrow Unvisited 90 

Tarrow Visited 91 

Yarrow Eevisited 92 

Fidelity 93 

Influence of Natural Objects 118 

Kitten and Falling Leaves 128 

ToH. C. sis years Old 132 

The Pet Lamb 188 

Idle Shepherd Boys 141 

Her Eyes are Wild 156 

Lucy Gray 158 

We are Seven 160 

Lucy 165 

To 278 

Sonnet 307 

Laodamia 325 

Sonnets 394 

To a Highland Girl 618 

" She was a Phantom of Delight " 619 

Burns, at the Grave of 636 

Resolution and Independence 643 

The Fountain 657 

The Tables Turned 657 

Ode to Duty 674 

Ode— On Immortality 695 

Laborer's Noonday Hymn 745 

WOTTON, SIR HENRY. • 

Born in Boughton Hall, Eng., March 30, 1568 ; d. Dec. 1639. 

Verses in Praise of Angling 22 

Ye Meaner Beauties 251 

Happy Life 693 

WYAT, SIR THOMAS. 

Born in Allington Castle, England, in 1503 ; died Oct. 11, 1542. 

An Earnest Suit 248 

XAVIEE, ST. FRANCIS. (Latin.) 

Born in Xavier, Navarre, in 1506 ; died Dec. 2, 1552. 

My God, I Love Thee {Edward CasweWs 
translation.) 732 

YOUL, EDWARD. 

A writer in "Hewitt's Journal," — London, 1847-'8. 

Song of Spring 421 

ZEDLITZ, JOSEPH CHRISTIAN. (Geeman.) 

Born in Austrian Silesia, Feb. 28, 1790. 

The Midnight Review. {Anonymous trans .) . 568 
ANONYMOUS. 

Song of the Swallow. {Greelc.) 11 

Saxon Song of Summer. (12^/i Century.) 17 

To Song Birds on a Sunday. (19^^ Century, 

English.) 31 

The Owl. {\lth Century.) 110 

A Winter Wind. (19<A Century, American.) . . 115 

The Skater's Song, {imh Century.) 118 

Philip, my Ktng. (19^^ Century, English.) . . 125 
Children in the Wood. {\lth Century, Eng.).. 185 
Fancy about a Boy. {19th Century, English.). 140 
Little Boy Blue. (19«/i Century, English:) .... 142 
Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament, {yith Century, 

Scotch.) 155 

My Playmates. (19^/i Century, English.) 161 

To a Child. {19th Century, English.) 164 

When shall we Three meet Again. (IS^A Cen- 
tury, English.) ." 179 

How stands the Glass Around. {\%th Century, 

English.) ^ 187 

Sir Caullne. (Utfi Century, English.) 199 

Nut-Brown Maid. {\bth Century, English.) . . 204 
Young Beichan and Susie Pye. {\bth Cen., Eng.) 208 

Lord Lovel. (16^/«. Century, English.) 210 

Robin Hood and AUen-a-dale. {ibth Century, 

English.) 211 

Truth's Integrity. {\Wi Century, English.).. 212 
Spanish Lady's Love. {\5th Century, English.) 215 
Seaman's Happy Return. {\Wi Cent., English.) 219 
Bridal of Andalla. {Spanish, LockharVs trans- 
lation.) 226 

Zara's Ear-rings. {Spanish, LockharVs trans- 
lation.) 230 



Pago 

Watch Song. (16<A Century, German.) 231 

Old Story. {lUh Century, Irish.) 233 

The White Rose. (17^^ Century, English.).. . 248 

Love not Me. {11th Century, English.) 257 

Kulnasatz, my Reindeer. {Icelandic, anony- 
mous translation.) 260 

Robin Adair. (18^^ Century, Scotch.) 263 

Merry may the Keel Rowe. {IBth Century, 

Scotch.) 264 

Annie Laurie. (18//i Century, Scotch.) 265 

O, Saw ye the Lass. (18^/i Century, Scotch.) . . 267 

Summer Days. {19th Century, English.) 275 

O I tell me Love, the dearest Hour. (19^/t Cen- 
tury, English.) 278 

Maiden's Choice. (18^^ Century, English.).. . 286 
Deceitfulness of Love. {11th Cen., English.) . . 288 
Coming through the Rye. {I'&th Cen., Scotch.) 290 
Love Unrequited. {19th Century, American.) 292 
Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny. (15^^ Cen- 
tury, Scotch.) 308 

Love. {19th Century, English.) 322 

Winifreda. {l^th Century, English.) 329 

Bull-fight of Gazul. {Spanish, Lockhart's 

translation.) 353 

Chevy Chase. {Ibth Century, English.) 355 

When Banners are Waving. (17^A Century, 

Scotch.) 366 

Gallant Grahams. (18^^ Century, Scotch.)... 368 
Charlie is my Darling. {ISth Century, Scotch.) 869 
Here's to the King, Sir ! {18th Century, Scotch.) 869 

Shan Van Vocht. {18th Century, Irish.) 875 

God save the King. (17^4 Century, English.). 376 

Sea Fight. {19th Century, English.) 388 

Seaman's Song. (18^/t Century, English.) 890 

Heir of Linne. {l&th Century, English.) 399 

Take thy old Cloak about Thee. {Ibth Century, 

English.) 402 

Old and Young Courtier. (17^A Cen., English.) 403 
Malbrouck. {French, Father Proufs trans- 
lation.) 405 

Essence of Opera. {French, L. Runfs trans.) 425 

Sir Patrick Spens. (15^/i Century, Scotch.) 445 

Child Noryce. (15^^ Century, Scotch.) 446 

Fair Annie of Lochroyan. (18^^ Cen., Scotch.) 447 
Dowie Dens of Yarrow. {Ibth Cen., Scotch.).. 449 
Rare Willy Drowned in Yarrow, (15^A Cen- 
tury, Scotch.) 451 

Cruel Sister. {Ibth Century, Scotch.) 452 

Edward, Edward. {18th Century, Scotch.) 454 

Lord Randal. {^Ibth Century, Scotch.) 454 

Twa Brothers. (15^7^ Century, ScotcJi.) 455 

Twa Corbies. {Ibth Century, ScotcJi.) 456 

Bonnie George Campbell. {11th Cen., Scotch.) 456 
Lament of the Border Widow. {lltJi Century, 

Scotch.) 456 

Fair Helen. {18th Century, Scotch.) 457 

Lamentation for Celin. {Spanish, Lockharfs 

translation.) 471 

Very Mournful Ballad. {Spanish, Byron's 

translation.) 472 

Young Airly. {18th Century, Scotch.) 487 

King Arthur's Death. {Ibth Cen., English.) . . . 522 
Thomas the Rhymer. {Uth Century, Scotch.) 525 
The Wee, wee Man. (15^/i Century, Scotch.). 526 
Robin Good Fellow, {llth Century, English.) 527 

Fairy Queen. (17^4 Century, English.) 528 

Song of Fairies, {llth Century, English.) 529 

Birth of Venus. {19th Century, English.) 545 

Lords of Thule. {German, anonymous trans- 
lation.) 585 

Balder. {19th Century, English.) 588 

Song of the Forge. (i9^A Century, English.). 593 

The Lye. {llth Century, English.) 651 

Smoking Spiritualized. {Uth Cen., English.). . 661 
Time is a Feathered Thing. {Uth Cen., Eng.). 671 

Time's Cure. {12th Century, English.) 671 

Poor Man's Song. {19th Century, English.). . . 679 
Sunrise comes to-morrow. {19th Century, 

English.) 682 

The Sturdy Rock. {Uth Century, English.).. 699 

Life and Death 702 

Lines on a Skeleton. {19th Century, English.) 707 
In the Desert of the Holy Land. {19th Cen- 
tury, American.) 742 

O Fear not Thou to Die. (19^/i. Cen. English.) 758 
New Jerusalem. {Latin, anonymous trans.) 766 
God is Love. {19th Ce/ntury, English.) 786 



PART I. 

POEMS OF NATURE 



The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We hare given our hearts awav, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

WOEDSWOBTH. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF. 



A. gentlewoman out of an arbonr in a grove, seeth a gi-eat 
companie of knights and ladies in a daunce upon the 
greene grasse ; the which being ended, they all kneele 
downe, and do honour to the daisie, some to the flower, 
and some to the leafe. Afterward this gentlewoman 
learneth by one of these ladies the meaning hereof, 
which is this : They which honour the flower, a thing 
fading with every blast, are such as looke after beautie 
and worldly pleasure. But they that honour the leafe, 
which abideth with the root, notwithstanding the frosts 
and winter stormes, are they which follow vertue and 
during qualities, without regard of worldly respects. 

Whats- that Phebus his chair of gold so hie 
Had whirled up the sterry sky alofte, 
And in the Boole was entred certainly : 
When shoures sweet of raine descended softe, 
Causing the ground, fele times and ofte, 
Up for to give many an wholsome aire, 
And every plaine was yclothed faire 

With newe greene, and maketh smale floures 
To springen here and there in fielde and 

mede; 
So very good and wholsome be the shoures, 
That it renueth that was olde and dede 
In winter time ; and out of every sede 
Springeth the herbe, so that every wight 
Of this season wexeth glad and light. 

And I, so glad of the season swete, 
Was happed thus upon a certaine night: — 
As I lay in my bedde, sleepe ful unmete 
Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
Rest, I ne wist ; for there nas earthly wight, 
As I suppose, had more hertes ease 
Than I, for I nad sicknesse nor disease. 



Wherefore I mervaile greatly of my selfe, 
That I so long withouten sleepe lay ; 
And up I rose three houres after twelfe, 
About the springing of the day ; 
And I put on my geare and mine array, 
And to a pleasaunt grove I gan passe. 
Long er the bright Sunne up risen was ; 

In which were okes grete, streight as a line, 
Under the which the grasse, so fresh of hewe, 
Was newly sprong; and an eight foot or nine 
Every tree wel fro his fellow grew, 
With branches brode, laden with leves newe. 
That sprongen out ayen the sunneshene, 
Some very redde, and some a glad light grene ; 

Which, as me thought, was right a pleasant 

sight ; 
And eke the briddes songe for to here 
Would have rejoiced any earthly wight; 
And I that couth not yet, in no manere, 
Heare the nightingale of al the yeare, 
Ful busily herkened with herte and eare, 
If I her voice perceive coud any where. 

And, at the last, a path of little brede 
I found, that greatly had not used be; 
For it forgrowen was with grasse and weede, 
That wel unneth a wighte might it se : 
Thought I, 'This path some whider goth, 

parde ! ' 
And so I followed, tiU it me brought 
To right a pleasaunt herber, well ywrought, 

That benched was, and with turfes newe 

Freshly turved, whereof the grene gras, 

So smale, so thicke, so shorte, so fresh of newe, 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



That most like unto grene wool, wot I, it was : 
The hegge also that yede in compas, 
And closed in al the grene herbere, 
"With sicamour was set and eglatere, 

"Wrethen in fere so wel and cunningly, 

That every branch and leafe grew by mesure, 

Plaine as a bord, of an height by and by. 

I see never thing, I you ensure, 

So wel done ; for he that tooke the cure 

It to make, y trow, did all his peine 

To make it passe alle tho that men have seine. 

And shapen was this herber, roofe and alle. 
As a prety parlom* ; and also 
The hegge as thicke as a castle walle. 
That who that list without to stond or go. 
Though he wold al day prien to and fro, 
He should not see if there were any wight 
"Within or no ; but one within wel might 

Perceive all tho thot yeden there withoute 
In the field, that was on every side 
Covered with corn and grasse ; that out of 

doubt, 
Though one wold seeke alle the world wide. 
So rich a fielde cold not be espide 
On no coast, as of the quantity ; 
For of alle good thing there was plenty. 

And I that al this pleasaunt sight sie, 
Thought sodainely I felt so swete an aire 
Of the eglentere, that certainely 
There is no herte, I deme, in such dispaire, 
ISTe with thoughtes froward and contraire 
So overlaid, but it should soone have bote, 
If it had ones felt this savour sote. 

And as I stood and cast aside mine eie, 

I was ware of the fairest medler tree, 

That ever yet in aUe my life I sie, 

As ful of blossomes as it might be ; 

Therein a goldfinch leaping pretile 

Fro bough to bough ; and, as him list, he eet 

Here and there of buddes and fioures swete. 

And to the herber side was joyninge 
This faire tree, of which I have you tolde, 
And at the laste the brid began to singe, 
"Whan he had eeten what he ete wolde, 
So passing swetely, that by manifolde 



It was more pleasaunt than I coud devise. 
And whan his song was ended in this wise. 

The nightingale with so mery a note 
Answered him, that al the wood ronge 
So sodainely, that as it were a sote, 
I stood astonied ; so was I with the song 
Thorow ravished, that til late and longe, 
I ne wist in what place I was, ne where ; 
And ayen, me thought, she songe ever by 
mine ere. 

Wherefore I waited about busily, 
On every side, if I her might see ; 
And, at the laste, I gan ful wel aspy 
Where she sat in a fresh grene laurer tree, 
On the further side, even right by me. 
That gave so passinge a delicious smelle, 
According to the eglentere ful weUe. 

Whereof I had so inly great pleasure. 
That, as me thought, I surely ravished was 
Into Paradise, where my desire 
Was for to be, and no ferther passe 
As for that day ; and on the sote grasse 
I sat me downe ; for, as for mine entent. 
The briddes song was more convenient. 

And more pleasaunt to me by many folde. 
Than meat or drinke, or any other thinge. 
Thereto the herber was so fresh and colde. 
The wholesome savours eke so comfortinge. 
That, as I demed, sith the beginninge 
Of the world was never seene or than 
So pleasaunt a ground of none earthly man. 

And as I sat, the brids hearkening thus. 
Me thought that I heard voices sodainely, 
The most sweetest and most delicious 
That ever any wight, I trowe truely. 
Heard in their life ; for the armony 
And sweet accord was in so good musike, 
That the voice to angels most was like. 

At the last, out of a grove even by. 

That was right goodly and pleasaunt to sight, 

I sie where there came, singing lustily, 

A world of ladies ; but, to tell aright 

Their grete beauty, it lieth not in my might, 

Ne their array ; neverthelesse I shalle 

Telle you a part, though I speake not of alle. 



THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF. 



The surcotes white, of velvet wele sittinge, 

They were in cladde, and the semes echone, 

As it were a manere garnishinge, 

"Was set with emerauds, one and one, 

By and by ; but many a riche stone 

Was set on the purfiles, out of doute, 

Of collers, sieves, and traines round aboute. 

As grete pearles, rounde and orient, 

Diamondes fine, and rubies redde, 

And many another stone, of which I went 

The names now ; and everich on her hedde 

A rich fret of gold, which without dread. 

Was ful of stately riche stones set ; 

And every lady had a chapelet 

On her hedde of branches fresh and grene, 
So wele wrought and so marvelously. 
That it was a noble sight to sene ; 
Some of laurer, and some ful pleasauntly 
Had chapelets of woodbind, and saddely 
Some of agnus castus ware also 
Chapelets freshe ; but there were many of tho 

That daunced and eke songe ful soberly. 
But alle they yede in manner of compace ; 
But one there yede in mid the company. 
Sole by her selfe ; but alle followed the pace 
That she kepte, whose hevenly figured face 
So pleasaunt was, and her wele shape person. 
That of beauty she past hem everichon. 

And more richly beseene, by many folde, 
She was also in every maner thing : 
On her hedde ful pleasaunt to beholde, 
A crowne of golde rich for any king : 
A braunch of agnus castus eke bearing 
In her hand ; and to my sight truely, 
She lady was of the company. 

And she began a roundel lustely, 
That '■'■ SvySe lefoyle^ devers moy,^^ men calle, 
'•'■ Siene etmonjoly couer est endormy^^'^ 
And than the company answered alle. 
With voices sweet entuned, and so smale. 
That me thought it the sweetest melody 
That ever I heard in my life sothly. 

And thus they came, dauncinge and singinge. 
Into the middes of the mede echone. 
Before the herber where I was sittinge ; 
And, God wot, me thought I was wel bigone ; 



For than I might tivise hem one by one, 
Who fairest was, who coud best dance or 

singe. 
Or who most womanly was in alle thinge. 

They had not daunced but a little thro we. 

Whan that I hearde ferre of sodainely. 

So great a noise of thundering trumpes blowe. 

As though it should have departed the skie ; 

And, after that, within a while I sie. 

From the same grove where the ladies came 

oute. 
Of men of armes cominge such a route. 

As alle the men on earth had been assembled 
In that place, wele horsed for the nones, 
Steringe so fast, that al the earth trembled : 
But for to speke of riches and of stones, 
And men and horse, I trowe the large wones. 
Of Prestir John, ne all his tresory. 
Might not unneth have boght the tenth party 

Of their array : who so list heare more, 

I shal rehearse so as I can a lite. 

Out of the grove, that I spake of before, 

I sie come firste, al in their clokes white, 

A company, that ware, for their delite, 

Chapelets freshe of okes serialle, 

ISTewly sprong, and trumpets they were alle. 

On every trumpe hanging a broad banere 
Of fine tartarium were ful richely bete ; 
Every trumpet his lordes armes here ; 
About their neckes, with great pearles sete, 
Collers brode ; for cost they would not lete. 
As it would seem, for their scochones echone. 
Were set aboute with many a precious stone. 

Their horse harneis was al white also. 
And after them next in one company, 
Came kinges of armes, and no mo. 
In clokes of white cloth of gold richely ; 
Chapelets of greene on their hedes on hie ; 
The crownes that they on tlieir scochones here 
Were sette with pearle, ruby, and saphere. 

And eke great diamondes many one : 
But al their horse harneis and other gere 
Was in a sute accordinge, everichone, 
As ye have herd the foresaid trumpetes were; 



POEMS OP NATURE. 



And by seeminge, they were nothing to lere, 
And theii* guidinge they did so manerly. 
And, after hem, came a great company 

Of heraudes and pursevauntes eke, 
Arraied in clothes of white velvette, 
And, hardily, they were no thing to seke, 
How they on them should the harneis sette ; 
And every man had on a chapelet ; 
Scochones, and eke harneis, indede. 
They had in sute of hem that fore hem yede. 



in armour bright 



"Rext after hem came. 
All save their heades, seemely knightes nine; 
And every claspe and naile, as to my sight. 
Of their harneis were of rad goide fine ; 
With cloth of gold, and furred with ermine 
"Were the trappoures of their stedes stronge, 
Wide and large, that to the ground did honge. 

And every bosse of bridle and paitrel 
That they had, was worth, as I wold wene, 
A thousand pounde ; and on their heddes, wel 
Dressed, were crownes of laurer grene. 
The best made that ever I had sene ; 
And every knight had after him ridinge 
Three henchemen on hem awaitinge. 

Of whiche every first, on a short tronchoun. 
His lordes helme bare, so richly dight, 
That the worst was worthe the ransoun 
Of any king ; the second a shield bright 
Bare at his backe ; the thred bare upright 
A mighty spere, full sharpe ground and kene, 
And every childe ware of leaves grene 

A fresh chapelet upon his haires bright ; 
And clokes white of fine velvet they ware ; 
Their steedes trapped and raied right, 
"Without difference, as their lordes were ; 
And after hem, on many a fresh corsere, 
There came of armed knightes such a route, 
That they besprad the large field aboute. 

And al they ware, after their degrees, 
Chapelets newe made of laurer grene ; 
Some of the oke, and some of other trees. 
Some in their bonds bare boughes shene. 
Some of laurer, and some of okes kene. 



Some of hauthorne, and some of the wood- 

binde. 
And many mo which I had not in minde. 

And so they came, their horses freshely ster- 

inge. 
With bloody sownes of hir trompes loude ; 
There sie I many an uncouth disguisinge 
In the array of these knightes proude. 
And at the last, as evenly as they coude. 
They took their places in middes of the mede, 
And every knight turned his horses hede 

To his fellow, and lightly laid a spere 

In the rest ; and so justes began 

On every part about, here and there ; 

Some brake his spere, some drew down hors 

and man ; 
About the field astray the steedes ran ; 
And, to behold their rule and governaunce, 
I you ensure, it was a great pleasaunce. 

And so the justes laste an houre and more ; 
But tho that crowned were in laurer grene 
Wanne the prise ; their dintes was so sore. 
That there was none ayent hem might sustene: 
And the justinge al was left off clene. 
And fro their horse the ninth alight anone. 
And so did al the remnant everichone. 

And forth they yede togider, twain and twain, 
That to beholde it was a worthy sight. 
Toward the ladies on the grene plain, 
That songe and daunced, as I said now right: 
The ladies, as soone as they goodly might, 
They brake of both the song and daunce, 
And yede to meet hem with ful glad sem- 
blaunce. 

And every lady tooke, ful womanly, 
By the bond a knight, and forth they yede 
IJnto a faire laurer that stood fast by. 
With levis lade, the boughes of grete brede ; 
And to my dome there never was, indede, 
Man that had seene halfe so faire a tre ; 
For underneath there might it well have be 

An hundred persones, at their owne plesaunce, 
Shadowed fro the hete of Phebus bright. 
So that they sholde have felt no grevaunce 
Of raine ne haile that hem hurte might. 
The savour eke rejoice would any wight 



THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF. 



That had be sicke or melancolious, 
It was so very good and vertuous. 

And with great reverence they inclined lowe 
To the tree so soote, and faire of hewe ; 
And after that, within a little throwe, 
They began to singe and daunce of newe 
Some songe of love, some plaininge of untrewe, 
Environinge the tree that stood upright.; 
And ever yede a lady and a knight. 

And at the last I cast mine eye aside. 
And was ware of a Insty company 
That come rominge out of the field wide, 
Hond in hond a knight and a lady ; 
The ladies all in surcotes, that richely 
Purfiled were with many a riche stone, 
And every knight of grene ware mantles on, 

Embrouded wel so as the surcotes were : 
And everich had a chapelet on her hedde, 
Which did right well upon the shining here, 
Made of goodly floures white and redde ; 
The knightes eke, that they in honde ledde, 
In sute of hem ware chapelets everichone, 
And before hem went minstreles many one. 

As harpes, pipes, lutes, and sautry, 

Alle in greene ; and on their heades bare, 

Of divers floures, made ful craftely, 

Al in a sute, goodly chapelets they ware ; 

And, so dauncinge into the mede they fare. 

In mid the which they foun a tuft that was 

Al oversprad with floures in compas. 

Whereto they enclined everichone 

With great reverence, and that ful humbly ; 

And, at the laste, there began anone 

A lady for to singe right womanly 

A bargeret in praising the daisie ; 

Eor, as me thought, among her notes swete, 

She said ^''Si douce est la Margarete.^^ 

Than they alle answered her in fere. 
So passingely wel, and so pleasauntly, 
That it was a blisful noise to here. 
But, I not how, it happed sodainely 
As about noone, the Sunne so fervently 
Waxe bote, that the prety tender floures 
Had lost the beauty of hir fresh coloures, 



Forshronke withiieat ; the ladies eke to-brent. 
That they ne wiste where they hem might 

bestowe ; 
The knightes swelt, for lack of shade nie shent ; 
And after that, within a little throwe. 
The wind began so sturdily to blowe. 
That down goeth all the floures everichone. 
So that in al the mede there left not one ; 

• 
Save such as succom*ed were among the leves 

Fro every storme that might hem assaile, 

Growinge imder the hegges and thicke greves ; 

And after that there came a storme of haile 

And raine in fere, so that, withouten faile. 

The ladies ne the knightes nade o threed 

Drie on them, so dropping was hir weed. 

And whan the storm was cleane passed away, 
Tho in white that stoode under the tree. 
They felte nothing of the grete affi-ay, 
That they in greene withoute had in ybe; 
To them they yede for routhe and pite, 
Them to comforte after their great disease, 
So faine they were the helplesse for to ease. 

Than I was ware how one of hem in grene 
Had on a crowne, rich and wel sittiuge ; 
Wherefore I demed wel she was a queue. 
And tho in grene on her were awaitinge ; 
The ladies then in white that were comminge 
Toward them, and the knightes in fere, 
Began to comforte hem, and make hem chere. 

The queen in white, that was of grete beauty. 
Took by the hond the queen that was in grene. 
And said, "Suster, I have right great pity 
Of your annoy, and of the troublous tene. 
Wherein ye and your company have bene 
So longe, alas ! and if that it you please 
To go with me, I shall do you the ease, 

" In all the pleasure that I can or may ; " 
Whereof the other, humbly as she might. 
Thanked her ; for in right il array 
Sh^ was with storm and heat, I you behight; 
And every lady, then anone right. 
That were in white, one of them took in grene 
By the hond; which whan the knights had 
sene. 



8 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



In like wise ecli of them tooke a knight 
Cladde in greene, and forthe with hem they 

fare, 
To an hegge, where they anon right, 
To make their justes, they wolde not spare 
Boughes to hewe down, and eke trees square, 
"Wherwith they made hem stately fires grete. 
To drye their clothes that were wringinge 

wete. 
• 
And after that, of herhes that there grewe. 
They made, for blisters of the Sunne bren- 

ninge, 
Yery good and wholesome ointmentes new, 
Wherewith they yede the sick fast anointinge ; 
And after that they yede about gaderinge 
Pleasaunt salades, which they made hem ete. 
For to refreshe their great unkindly hete. 

The lady of the Leafe than began to praye 
Her of the Floure (for so to my seeminge 
They sholde be, as by their arraye) 
To soupe with her, and eke, for any thinge, 
That she shold with her alle her people bringe : 
And she ayen, in right goodly manere. 
Thanked her of her most friendly chere, 

Saying plainely, that she would obaye 
"With all her herte, all her commaundement ; 
And then anon, without lenger delaye. 
The lady of the Leafe hath one ysent. 
For a palfray, after her intent, 
Arrayed wel and faire in harneis of gold. 
For nothing lacked, that to him long shold. 

And after that, to al her company 
She made to purveye horse and every thinge 
That they needed ; and than ful lustily. 
Even by the herber where I was sittinge 
They passed alle, so pleasantly singinge. 
That it would have comforted any wight. 
But than I sie a passing wonder sight ; 

For than the nightingale, that al the day 
Had in the laurer sate, and did her might 
The whole service to singe longing to May, 
All sodainely began to take her flight ; 
And to the lady of the Leafe, forthright. 
She flew, and set her on her bond softely,' 
Which was a thing I marveled of gretely. 

The goldfinch eke, that fro the medler tree 
Was fled for heat into the bushes colde, 



Unto the lady of the Floure gan flee, 
And on her bond he sit him as he wolde. 
And pleasauntly his winges gan to fold ; 
And for to singe they pained hem both, as sore 
As they had do of al the day before. 

And so these ladies rode forth a great pace. 
And al the rout of knightes eke in fere ; 
And I that had seen al this wonder case. 
Thought I wold assaye in some manere. 
To know fully the trouth of this matere ; 
And what they were that rode so pleasauntly. 
And whan they were the herber passed by, 

I drest me forth, and happed to mete anone 
Eight a faire lady, I do you ensure ; 
And she came riding by herselfe alone, 
Alle in white ; with semblance ful demure, 
I salued her, and bad good aventure 
Might her befalle, as I coud most humbly ; 
And she answered, " My doughter, gra- 
mercy ! " 

"Madame," quoth I, "if that I durst enquere 
Of you, I .would faine, of that company, * 
Wite what they be that past by this arbere? " 
And she ayen answered right friendely : — 
"My faire doughter, alle tho that passed 

here by 
In white clothing, be servaunts everichone 
Unto the Leafe, and I my selfe am one. 

"See ye not her that crowned is," quoth she, 
"Alle in white?"— "Madame," quoth I, "yes:" 
"That is Diane, goddesse of chastite ; 
And for because that she a maiden is. 
In her honde the braunch she beareth this, 
That agnus castus men calle properly ; 
And alle the ladies in her company, 

"Which ye se of that herbe chapelets weare. 
Be such as han kept alway hir maidenheed: 
And alle they that of laurer chapelets beare. 
Be such as hardy were, and manly in deed, — 
Victorious name which never may be dede! 
And alle they were so worthy of hir bond. 
In hir time, that none might hem withstond. 

"And tho that weare chapelets on their hede 
Of fresh woodbinde, be such as never were 
To love untrue in word, thought, ne dede. 
But aye stedfast; ne for pleasannce, ne fere, 



THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF. 



Though that they should theii* hertes all to- 

tere, 
Would never flit but ever were stedfast, 
Til that their lives there asunder brast." 

" Now faire Madame," quoth I, " yet I would 

praye 
Your ladiship, if that it mighte be, 
That I might knowe by some maner wave, 
(Sith that it hath liked your beaute, 
The trouth of these ladies for to tell me ;) 
What that these knightes be in rich armour, 
And what tho be in grene and weare the flour? 

"And why that some did reverence to that 

tre, 
And some unto the plot of floures faire ? " 
"With right good will, my faire doughter," 

quoth she, 
"Sith your desire is good and debonaire ; 
The nine crowned be very exemplaire 
Of al honour longing to chivalry ; 
And those certaine be called the Nine Worthy, 

"Which ye may see now ridinge alle before. 
That in hir time did many a noble dede. 
And for their worthines ful oft have bore 
The crowne of laurer leaves on their hede. 
As ye may in your olde bookes rede ; 
And how that he that was a conquerour, 
Had by laurer alway his most honour. 

"And tho that beare bowes in their honde 
Of the precious laurer so notable. 
Be such as were, I wol ye understonde, 
Noble knightes of the round table, 
And eke the Douseperis honourable, 
Which they beare in signe of victory ; 
It is witnesse of their deedes mightily. 

"Eek there be knightes olde of the garter, 
That in hir time did right worthily ; 
And the honour they did to the laurer, 
Is for by it they have their laud wholly. 
Their triumph eke, and martial glory ; 
Which unto them is more parfite richesse, 
Than any wight imagine can or gesse. 

"For one leafe, given of that noble tree 
To any wight that hath done worthily. 
And it be done so as it ought to be, 
Is more honour than any thing earthly ; 



Witnes of Eome that founder was truly 
Of aUe knighthood and deeds marvelous ; 
Eecord I take of Titus Livius. 

"And as for her that crowned is in greene. 
It is Flora, of these floures goddesse ; 
And all that here on her awaiting beene. 
It are such folk that loved idlenesse, 
And not delite in no businesse, 
But for to hunte and hauke, and pleye in 

medes, 
And many other suchlike idle dedes. 

"And for the great delite and pleasaunce 
They have to the flom-e, and so reverently 
They unto it do such obeisaunce, 
As ye may se." — " Now faire Madame," 

quoth I, 
"KI durst aske, what is the cause and why, 
That knightes have the ensigne of honour, 
Eather by the leafe than the floure ? " 

" Soothly, doughter," quod she, " this is the 

trouth : — 
For knightes ever should be persevering, 
To seeke honour without feintise or slouth, 
Fro wele to better in all manner thinge ; 
In signe of which, with leaves aye lastinge. 
They be rewarded after their degre. 
Whose lusty grene may not appaii-ed be, 

" But aie keping their beaute fresh and 

greene ; 
For there nis storme that may hem deface, 
Haile nor snow, winde nor frostes kene ; 
Wherfore they have this property and grace. 
And for the floure, within a little space 
WoUe be lost, so simple of nature 
They be, that they no greevance may endure ; 

"And every storme will blowe them soone 

awaye, 
Ne they laste not but for a sesone ; 
That is the cause, the very trouth to saye, 
That they may not, by no way of resone. 
Be put to no such occupation." 
"Madame," quoth I, "witii al mine whole 

servlse 
I thanke you now, in my most humble wise ; 

"For now I am ascertained thurghly, 
Of every thing that I desii'ed to knowe." 
"I am right glad that I have said, sothly, 



10 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Ought to your pleasure, if ye wille me trowe," 
Quod she ay en, "but to whom do ye owe 
Your service? And which wille ye honoure, 
Tel me I pray, this yere, the Leafe or the 
Moure?" 

" Madame," quoth I, " though I be least 

worthy, 
Unto the Leafe I owe mine observaunce : " 
"That is," quod she, "right wel done cer- 
tainly; 
And I pray God to honour you avaunce. 
And kepe you fro the wicked remembraunce 
Of Malebouche, and all his crueltie, 
And alle that good and well conditioned be. 

"For here may I no lenger now abide, 

I must followe the great company. 

That ye may see yonder before you ride." 

And forth, as I couth, most humbly, 

I tooke my leve of her, as she gan hie 

After them as faste as ever she might , 

And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night, 

And put al that I had seene in writing, 
Under support of them that lust it to rede. 
O little booke, thou art so unconning, 
How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede? 
It is wonder that thou wexest not rede ! 
Sith that thou wost ful lite who shall behold 
Thy rude langage, ful boistously unfold. 

Geoffeey Chaucee. 



DESCRIPTION OF SPRING. 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth 
brings, 
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the 
vale ; 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 
The hart hath hung his old head on the 
pale. 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 

The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she flings ; 
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 



The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 

Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. 
And thus I see among these pleasant things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 

LoKD Stjeeey. 



THE AIRS OF SPRING, 

Sweetly breathing, vernal air. 
That with kind warmth doth repair 
"Winter's ruins ; from whose breast 
All the gums and spice of th' East 
Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky ; 
Whose disheveled tresses shed 
Pearls upon the violet bed ; 
On whose brow, with calm smiles drest. 
The halcyon sits and builds .her nest ; 
Beauty, youth, and endless spring, 
DweU upon thy rosy wing ! 

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 
Down whole forests when he blows, 
With a pregnant, flowery birth. 
Canst refresh the teeming earth. 
If he nip the early bud ; 
If he blast what's fair or good ; 
If he scatter our choice flowers ; 
If he shake our halls or bowers ; 
If his rude breath threaten us. 
Thou canst stroke great iEolus, 
And from him the grace obtain. 
To bind him in an iron chain. 

Thomas Caeew. 



RETURN OF SPRING. 

God shield ye, heralds of the spring. 
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing, 

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales. 
Turtles, and every wilder bird, 
That make your hundred chirpings heard 

Through the green woods and dales. 

God shield ye, Easter daisies all. 
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small, 



EARLY SPRING 



11 



And lie whom erst the gore 
Of Ajax and Narciss did print, 
Ye wild thjme, anise, balm, and mint, 

I welcome ye once more. 

God shield ye, bright embroider'd train 
Of butterflies, that on the plain. 

Of each sweet herblet sip ; 
And je, new swarms of bees, that go ' 
Where the pink flowers and yeUow grow. 

To kiss them with your lip. 

A hundred thousand times I call 
A hearty welcome on ye all : 

This season how I love — 
This merry din on every shore — 
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar 

Forbade my steps to rove. 

PiEEEB EoNSAED (French). 
Anonymous Translation. 



SONG OF THE SWALLOW. 

y tTie children, passing from door to door, 
at the return oj 



Sung 



The swallow is come ! 

The swallow is come ! 
He brings us the season of vernal delight. 
With his back aU of sable, and belly of white. 

Have you nothing to spare. 

That his palate would please — 

A fig, or a pear, 

Or a slice of rich cheese ? 

Mark, he bars all delay : 

At a word, my friend, say, 

Is it yes, is it nay ? 

Do we go ? do we stay ? 

One gift, and we're gone ; 

Eefuse, and anon. 

On your gate and your door 

All our fury we pour ; 

Or om- strength shall be tried 

On your sweet little bride ; 

From her seat we will tear her. 

From her home we will bear her ; 

She is light, and will ask 

But small hands for the task. 

Let your bounty then lift 

A small aid to our mirth, 



And whatever the gift. 

Let its size speak its worth. 

The swallow, the swallow, 

Upon you doth wait ; 

An alms-man and suppliant, 

He stands at your gate ; 

Let him in then, I say, 

Forjio gray-beards are we, 

To be foiled in our glee ; 

But boys who will have our own way. 

Translation of Mitchell. ANOirrMOtrs (Greek). 



MARCH. 

The cock is crowing. 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter, 

The lake doth glitter. 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest ; 

The cattle are grazing, 

Theii' heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like one ! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated. 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon ! 

There 's joy on the mountains ; 

There 's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing. 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The rain is over and gone ! 

William "Woedswoeth. 



SPEIFG. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new year, delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong. 

Delaying long ; delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons. 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 



12 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


Bring orcliis, bring tlie fox-glove spire, 


And the Frost hath passed his scythe 


The little speedwell's darling blue, 


O'er thy small, unsheltered head ? 


Deep tulips dashed with fierj dew, 


Ah ! — some lie amidst the dead, 


Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 


(Many a giant, stubborn tree, — 




Many a plant, its spirit shed,) 


thou, new year, delaying long. 


That were better nursed than thee ! 


Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 




That longs to burst a frozen bud, 
And flood a fresher throat with song. 


What hath saved thee ? Thou wast not 


'Gainst the arrowy winter furred, — 




Armed in scale, — but all forgot 




When the frozen winds were stirred. 


Now fades the last long streak of snow ; 


Nature, who doth clothe the bird. 


Now burgeons every maze of quick 


Should have hid thee in the earth, 


About the flowering squares, and thick 


Till the cuckoo's song was heard, 


By ashen roots the violets blow. 


And the Spring let loose her mirth. 


Now rings the woodland loud and long. 


Nature, — deep and mystic word ! 


The distance takes a lovelier hue. 


Mighty mother, still unknown! 


And drowned in yonder living blue 


Thou didst sure the snow-drop gird 


The lark becomes a sightless song. 


With an armor all thine own ! 




Thou, who sent'st it forth alone 


Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 


To the cold and sullen season, 


The flocks are whiter down the vale. 


(Tiike a thought at random thrown,) 


And milkier every milky sail 


Sent it thus for some grave reason ! 


On winding stream or distant sea ; 






If 't were but to pierce the mind 


Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 


With a single, gentle thQught, 


In yonder greening gleam, and fly 


Who shall deem thee harsh or blind 


The happy birds, that change their sky 


Who that thou hast vainly wrought ? 


To build and brood, that live their lives 


Hoard the gentle virtue caught 


From land to land ; and in my breast 


From the snow-drop, — ^reader wise ! 


Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 
And buds and blossoms like the rest. 


Good is good, wherever taught. 
On the ground or in the skies! 

Babey Coeitw^all. 


Alfeed Tennyson. 




APKIL. 




TO THK SNOW-DEOP. 


Lessons sweet of Spring returmng, 




Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! 


Peetty firstling of the year ! 


May I call ye sense or learning, 


Herald of the host of flowers ! 


Instinct pure, or heav'n-taught art? 


Hast thou left thy cavern drear. 


Be your title what it may, 


In the hope of summer hours? 


Sweet and lengthening April day, 


Back unto thy earthen bowers ! 


While with you the soul is free, 


Back to thy warm world below. 


Banging wild o'er hill and lea; 


Till the strength of suns and showers 




QueU the now relentless snow ! 


Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, 




To the inward ear devout. 


Art still here ?— Alive ? and blythe ? 


Touched by light with heavenly warning. 


Though the stormy Night hath fled. 


Your transporting chords ring out. 



APRIL. 



13 



Every leaf in every nook, 
Every wave in every brook, 
Chanting with a solemn voice, 
Minds us of our better choice. 

Needs no show of mountain hoary. 

Winding shore or deepening glen, 
Where the landscape in its glory, 

Teaches truth to wandering men. 
Give true hearts but earth and sky, 
And some flowers to bloom and die ; 
Homely scenes and simple views 
Lowly thoughts may best infuse. 

See the soft green willow springing 
Where the waters gently pass. 

Every way her free arms flinging 
O'er the moss and reedy grass. 

Long ere winter blasts are fled. 

See her tipp'd with vernal red, 

And her kindly flower displayed 

Ere her leaf can cast a shade. 

Though the rudest hand assail her. 

Patiently she droops awhUe, 
But when showers and breezes haU her, 

Wears again her willing smile. 
Thus I learn contentment's power 
From the slighted willow bower, 
Eeady to give thanks and live 
On the least that Heaven may give. 

If, the quiet brooklet leaving, 

Up the stormy vale I wind. 
Haply half in fancy grieving 

For the shades I leave behind, 
By the dusty wayside dear, 
Nightingales with joyous cheer 
Sing, my sadness to reprove, 
Gladlier than in cultured grove. 

Where the thickest boughs are twining 
Of the greenest, darkest tree. 

There they plunge, the light declining — 
All may hear, but none may see. 

Fearless of the passing hoof. 

Hardly wUl they fleet aloof; 

So they live in modest ways. 

Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. 

John Ejsble. 



ALMOND BLOSSOM. 

Blossom of the almond-trees, 
April's gift to April's bees. 
Birthday ornament of spring. 
Flora's fairest daughterling ; — 
Coming when no flow'rets dare 
Trust the cruel outer air ; 
When the royal king-cup bold 
Dares not don his coat of gold ; 
And the sturdy blackthorn spray 
Keeps his silver for the May ; — 
Coming when no flow'rets would, 
Save thy lowly sisterhood. 
Early violets, blue and white. 
Dying for their love of light. 
Almond blossom, sent to teach us 
That the spring-days soon will reach us, 
Lest, with longing over-tried. 
We die as the violets died — 
Blossom, clouding all the tree 
With thy crimson broidery, 
Long before a leaf of green 
On the bravest bough is seen ; 
Ah ! when winter winds are swinging 
All thy red bells into ringing, 
With a bee in every bell. 
Almond bloom, we greet thee well. 

Edwht Aenold. 



SPKING. 



Behold the young, the rosy Spring, 
Gives to the breeze her scented wing, 
While virgin graces, warm with May, 
Fling roses o'er her dewy way. 
The murmuring billows of the deep 
Have languished into silent sleep ; 
And mark ! the flitting sea-birds lave 
Their plumes in the reflecting wave ; 
While cranes from hoary winter fly 
To flutter in a kinder sky. 
Now the genial star of day 
Dissolves the murky clouds away, 
And cultured field and winding stream 
Ai-e freshly glittering in his beam. 

Now the earth prolific swells 
With leafy buds and flow'ry bells ; 



14 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Gemming shoots the olive twine ; 
Clusters bright festoon the vine ; 
All along the branches creeping, 
Through the velvet foliage peeping, 
Little infant fruits we see 
Nursing into luxury. 
Translation of T. Mooee. Anaobeok. 



SONG: ON MAY MOENING. 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with 

her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap 

throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 
"Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hni and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song. 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Milton. 



A DEOP OF DEW. 

See how the orient dew, 
Shed from the bosom of the morn 
Into the blowing roses, 
(Yet careless of its mansion new 
For the clear region where 'twas born) 
Eound in itself incloses, 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 

How it the purple flower does slight. 

Scarce touching where it lies ; 
But gazing back upon the skies. 
Shines with a mournful light, 
Like its own tear. 
Because so long divided from the sphere ; 
Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 

Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exhales it back again. 

So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day. 



Could it within the human flower be seen. 
Remembering still its former height, 
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green. 
And, recollecting its own light. 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
In how coy a figure wound. 
Every way it turns away ; 
So the world excluding round. 
Yet receiving in the day. 
Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go 1 
How girt and ready to ascend ! 
Moving but on a point below. 
It aU about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil. 
White and entire, although congeal'd and 

chiU— 
Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of th' Almighty sun. 

Andeew Mabvell. 



SONG. 



Phcebtjs, arise. 

And paint the sable skies 

With azure, white, and red ; 

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's 

bed. 
That she thy career may with roses spread. 
The nightingales thy coming each where sing, 
Make an eternal spring. 
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; 
Spread forth thy golden hair 
In larger locks than thou wast wont before, 
And, emperor-like, decore 
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 
Chase hence the ugly night, 
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious 

light. 
This is that happy morn. 
That day, long-wished day, 
Of all my life so dark, 
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, 
And fates my hopes betray,) 
Which, purely white, deserves 
An everlasting diamond should it mark. 
This is the morn should bring unto this grove 






MAY. 



15 



Mj love, to hear, and recompense my love. 

Fair king, who all preserves. 

But show thy blushing beams. 

And thou two sweeter eyes 

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 

Did once thy heart surprise : 

!N'ay, suns, which shine as clear 

As thou when two thou didst to Kome appear. 

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise.' 

If that ye winds would hear 

A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre. 

Your furious chiding stay; 

Let Zephyr only breathe, 

And with her tresses play. 

Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death. 

The winds all silent are. 

And Phoebus in his chair 

Ensaffroning sea and air. 

Makes vanish every star : 

Night like a drunkard reels 

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. 

The fields with flowers are decked in every 

hue. 
The clouds with orient gold spangle their 

blue: 
Here is the pleasant place, 
And nothing wanting is, save she, alas ! 

"William DEXjMMOin), 



And from its darkening shadow floats 
A gush of trembling notes. 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; 

The tresses of the woods 
With the light dallying of the west- wind 

play; 

And the full-brimming floods. 
As gladly to their goal they run, 
Hail the returning sun. 

James G-ates PEEcrvAi. 



MAY. 



I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 

The winds, that fan the flowers, 
And with their welcome breathings fill the 
sail, 
Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south- wind calls 

From his blue throne of air, 
And where his whispering voice in music falls, 
Beauty is budding there ; 
The bright ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 

And the wide forest weaves. 
To welcome back its playful mates again, 

A canopy of leaves ; 



SONG TO MAY. 

May ! queen of blossoms, 
And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music 

Shall we charm the hours? 

Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 

Blown in the open mead? 

Or to the lute give heed 
In the green bowers ? 

Thou hast no need of us. 

Or pipe or wire, 
That hast the golden bee 

Kipened with fire ; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters, that thee adore. 
Filling earth's grassy floor 

With new desire. 

Thou hast thy mighty herds. 
Tame, and free livers ; 

Doubt not, thy music too 
In the deep rivers ; 

And the whole plumy flight. 

Warbling the day and night — 

Up at the gates of light. 
See, the lark quivers ! 

When with the jacinth 

Coy fountains are tressed ; 

And for the mournful bird 
Greenwoods are dressed. 

That did for Tereus pine ; 

Then shall our songs be thine, 

To whom our hearts incline : 



May, be thou blessed! 



LoED Thtjelo-w. 



16 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



sPEma 

ITow tlie lusty spring is seen ; 

Golden yellow, gaudy blue, 

Daintily invite the view. 
Every where, on every green, 
Koses blushing as they blow, 

And enticing men to pull ; 
Lilies whiter than the snow ; 
"Woodbines of sweet honey fall — 

All love's emblems, and all cry, 



Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May — 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows. 
Or the water- wooing willows ; 
Where, in laughing and in sobbing. 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May. 

"Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May : 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — 



jjaujLtJs, u xiou piucKeu, we aiei 


Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 


Beattmont and Fletchek. 


Life still ebbs away ; 




Man is ever weary, weary, 




Waiting for the May ! 

, Denis Floebnoe MoCaetht. 




SUMMER LONGINGS. 


, 


Las mafianas floridas 




De Abril y Mayo. 

Caldeeon. 


NIGHT IS NIGH GONE. 


Ah ! my heart is weary waiting — 


Hey, now the day 's dawning ; 


Waiting for the May — 


The jolly cock's crowing; 


Waiting for the pleasant rambles. 


The eastern sky's glowing; 


Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 


Stars fade one by one ; 


With the woodbine alternating. 


The thistle-cock 's crying 


Scent the dewy way. 


On lovers long lying, 


Ah ! my heart is weary waiting — 


Cease vowing and sighing ; 


Waiting for the May. 


The night is nigh gone. 


Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 


The fields are o'erflowing 


Longing for the May — 


With gowans all glowing. 


Longing to escape from study. 


And white lilies growing. 


To the young face fair and ruddy. 


A thousand as one ; 


And the thousand charms belonging 


The sweet ring-dove cooing. 


To the summer's day. 


His love notes renewing. 


Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 


Now moaning, now suing ; 


Longing for the May. 


The night is nigh gone. 


Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 


The season excelling. 


Sighing for the May — 


In scented flowers smelling, 


Sighing for their sure returning. 


To kind love compelling 


When the summer beams are burning. 


Our hearts every one ; 


Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 


With sweet ballads moving 


All the winter lay. 


The maids we are loving. 


Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 


Mid musing and roving 


Sighing for the May. 


The night is nigh gone. 



EARLY 


SUMMER. 17 


Of war and fair women 


Ewe bleateth after lamb ; 


The young kniglits are dreaming, 


Loweth calf after cow ; 


With bright breastplates gleaming, 


Bullock starteth, buck departeth ; 


And plumed helmets on ; 


Merry sing, cuckoo ; 


The barbed steed neighs lordly, 


Cuckoo, cuckoo; 


And shakes his mane proudly, 


"Well singeth the cuckoo — 


For war-trumpets loudly 


Sing ever, stop never. 


Say night is nigh gone. 


Cuckoo, cuckoo ; 


- 


Sing, cuckoo! 


I see the flags flowing, 


Modem Version. Anonymous, about 1250. 


The warriors all glowing. 




And, snorting and blowing, 




The steeds rushing on ; 




The lances are crashing, 




Out broad blades come flashing 


THEY C01\fE! THE l\rRRKY SmmER 


Mid shouting and dashing — 


MONTHS. 


The night is nigh gone. 




Albxaitdee Montgombey. 


They come ! the merry summer months of 




beauty, song, and flowers ; 




They come ! the gladsome months that bring 


* 


thick leafiness to bowers. 




Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad ; fling 


MOKNING IN LONDON. 


cark and care aside ; 




Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace 


Eaeth has not anything to show more fair: 


fill waters glide ; 


Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 


Or, underneath the shadow vast of patri 


A sight so touching in its majesty : 


archal tree, 


This city now doth, like a garment, wear 


Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in 


The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. 


rapt tranquility. 


Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples 




lie 


The grass is soft, its velvet touch is gratefol 


Open unto the fields, and to the sky. 


to the hand ; 


All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 


And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze 


Never did sun more beautifully steep. 


is sweet and bland ; 


In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 


The daisy and the buttercup are nodding 


Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 


courteously ; 


The river glideth at his own sweet will ; 


It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless 


Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 


and welcome thee : 


And aU that mighty heart is lying still ! 


And mark how with thine own thin locks — 


WnilAM WOEDSWOBTH. 


they now are silvery gray- 




That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whis- 




pering, "Be gay!" 
There is no cloud that sails along the ocean 




SAXON SONG OF SUMMER. 


of yon sky, 




But hath its own winged mariners to give it 


SuTvnvrRE is a coming in. 


melody : 


Loud sing, cuckoo; 


Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 


Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, 


gleaming like red gold ; 


And springeth the wood new. 


And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their 


Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo! 

2 


merry course they hold. 



18 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



God bless them all, those little ones, who, far 

above this earth. 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent 

a nobler mirth. 

But soft ! mine ear upcanght a sound, — from 

yonder wood it came ! 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe 

his own glad name ; — 
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart 

from all his kind. 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft 

western wind ; 
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again, — ^his notes 

are void of art ; 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the 

deep founts of the heart. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought- 
crazed wight like me. 

To smell again these summer flowers beneath 
this summer tree ! 

To suck once more in every breath their lit- 
tle souls away, 

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of 
youth's bright summer day, 

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the 
reckless, truant boy 

Wandered through greenwoods all day long, 
a mighty heart of joy ! 

I 'm sadder now — ^I have had cause ; but O ! 

I 'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet 

delight to drink ; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the 

calm, unclouded sky, 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the 

days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light fall round 

me dark and cold, 
I '11 bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart 

that hath waxed old ! 

William Motheewell. 



MOKOTNG. 

Haez — ^hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 



And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 
• My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise ! 



JHAEEBPEABB. 



TO THE SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest, 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the setting sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven. 
In the broad daylight. 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 
delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven 
is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 
What is most like thee ? 



! : 



THE SKY-LARK. 19 


From rainbow-clouds there flow not 


What objects are the fountains 


Drops so bright to see, 


Of thy happy strain ? 


As from thy presence showers a rain of 


What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 


melody. 


What shapes of sky or plain ? 




What love of thine own kind ? what ignor- 


Like a poet hidden 


ance of pain ? 


In the light of thought, 




Singing hymns unbidden. 


With thy clear, keen joyance 


Till the world is wrought 


Languor cannot be : 


To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 


Shades of annoyance 


not: 


Never come near thee : 


Tiike a high-born maiden, 


Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 


In a palace tower, 




Soothing her love-laden 


Waking, or asleep 


Soul in secret hour 


Thou of death must deem 


With music sweet as love, which overflows 
her bower • 


Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream ; 


±±\JX IL/V VV ^A . 


Or how could thy notes flow in such a crys- 


Like a glow-worm golden, 


tal stream ? 


In a dell of dew. 




Scattering unbeholden 


We look before and after, 


Its aerial hue 


And pine for what is not : 


Among the flowers and grass which screen it 


Our sincerest laughter 


from the view : 


With some pain is fraught ; 




Our sweetest songs are those that teU of sad- 


Like a rose embowered 


dest thought. 


In its own green leaves, 




By warm winds deflowered, 


Yet if we 'could scorn 


Till the scent it gives 


Hate, and pride, and fear ; 


Makes faint with too much sweet these 


If we were things born 


heavy-wing'd thieves. 


E"ot to shed a tear. 




I know not how thy joy we ever should come 


Sound of vernal showers 


near. 


On the twinkling grass. 




Eain-awakened flowers. 


Better than aU measures 


All that ever was 


Of delightful sound ; 


Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth 


Better than all treasures 


surpass. 


That in books are found, 




Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 


Teach no sprite or bird 


ground ! 


What sweet thoughts are thine : 


I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 


Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 


Chorus hymeneal. 
Or triumphant chant, 


From my lips would flow, 


The world should listen then, as I am listen- 


Matched with thine would be all 


ing now. 

Pbeoy Btsshb Shellbt. 


But an empty vaunt — 




A thing wherein we feel there is some hid- 
den want. 







20 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



THE LAEK. 

Bird of the wilderness, 
Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place : 

O to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay, and loud, 
Far in the downy cloud ; 

Love gives it energy — love gave it birth ! 
Where, on thy dewy wing — 
Where art thou journeying? 

Thy lay is in heaven — thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green. 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; 
Over the cloudlet dim. 
Over the rainbow's rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms. 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 



SONG. 



'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, 

That bids a blithe good-morrow ; 
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark 

To the soothing song of sorrow. 
Oh nightingale ! What doth she ail ? 

And is she sad or jolly ? 
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth 

So like to melancholy. 

The merry lark, he soars on high, 

No worldly thought o'ertakes him ; 
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky. 

And the daylight that awakes him. 
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay. 

The nightingale is trilling ; 
With feeling bliss, no less than his. 

Her little heart is thrilling. 



Yet ever and anon, a sigh. 

Peers through her lavish mirth ; 
For the lark's bold song is of the sky, 

And hers is of the earth. 
By night and day, she tunes her lay, 

To drive away all sorrow ; 
For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass. 

And woe may come to-morrow. 

Ha£il£T Colebidge. 



SONG. 



Pack clouds away, and welcome day. 
With night we banish sorrow : 

Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark, aloft. 
To give my love good-morrow. 

Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow : 

Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing. 
To give my love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow. 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast. 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow, 

Sing birds, in every farrow. 

Thomas Hetwood. 



THE ANGLERS TRYSTDTG TREE. 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 

Meet the morn upon the lea ; 
Are the emeralds of the spring 

On the angler's trysting-tree ? 

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 

Ai-e there buds on our willow-tree? 

Buds and birds on our trysting-tree ? 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 

Have you met the honey bee, 
Circling upon rapid wing, 



ANGLING. 



'Round the angler's trysting-tree ? 
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see ! 
Are there bees at our -willow-tree? 
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree ? 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 

Are the fountains gushing free ? 
Is the south wind wandering 

Through the angler's trysting-tree? 

Fp, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 

Is there wind up our willow-tree ? 

Wind or calm at our trysting-tree? 

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 

Wile us with a merry glee ; 
To the flowery haunts of spring — 

To the angler's trysting-tree. 

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 

Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree? 

Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree ? 
Thomas Tod Stoddabt. 



UP, AMARYLLIS! 

Waken", thou fair one ! up, Amaryllis ! 

Morning so still is ; 

Cool is the gale : 

The rainbow of heaven, 

With its hues seven, 

Brightness hath given 

To wood and dale. 
Sweet Amaryllis, let me convey thee ; 
In Neptune's arms naught shall affray thee; 
Sleep's god no longer power has to stay thee. 
Over thy eyes and speech to prevail. 

Come out a-fishing ; nets forth are carrying ; 

Come without tarrying — 

Hasten with me. 

Jerkin and veil in — 

Come for the sailing : 

For trout and grayling. 

Baits will lay we. 
Awake, Amaryllis ! dearest, awaken ; 
Let me not go forth by thee forsaken ; 
Our course among dolphins and sirens taken. 
Onward shall paddle our boat to the sea. 



Bring rod and line — bring nets for the land- 
ing; 

Morn is expanding. 

Hasten away! 

Sweet ! no denying, 

Frowning, or sighing — 

Could'st thou be trying 

To answer me nay ? 
Hence, on the shallows, our little boat leav- 

Or to the Sound where green waves are heav- 
ing. 

Where our true love its first bond was weav- 
ing, 

Causing to Thirsis so much dismay. 

Step in the boat, then ! both of us singing ; 

Love afresh springing, 

O'er us shall reign. 

If the storm rages, 

If it war wages. 

Thy love assuages 

Terror and pain. 
Calm 'mid the billows' wildest commotion, 
I would defy on thy bosom the ocean, 
Or would attend thee to death with devotion 
Sing, ye sirens, and mimic my strain ! 

Gael Michael Bellmanh (Swedish). 
Translation of Mart Howitt. 



THE ANGLER. 

Oh ! the gallant fisher's life. 

It is the best of any : 
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, 
And 'tis beloved by many : 

Other joys 

Are but toys ; 

Only this 

Lawful is ; 

For our skill 

Breeds no ill. 
But content and pleasure. 

In a morning, up we rise. 

Ere Aurora's peeping ; 
Drink a cup to wash our eyes. 

Leave the sluggard sleeping ; 



22 POEMS OJ 


' NATURE. 


Then we go, 


Before death 


To and fro, 


Stops our breath : 


With our knacks 


Other joys 


At OUT backs, 


Are but toys. 


To such streams 


And to be lamented. 


As the Thames, 


John Chalkhill. 


If we have the leisure. 
When we please to walk abroad 


• 




For our recreation ; 


VERSES m PPvATSE OF ANGLING. 


In the fields is our abode, 




Full of delectation, 


QuiVEEmG fears, heart-tearing cares, 


Where, in a brook, 


Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 


With a hook— 


Fly, fly to courts. 


Or a lake,— 


Fly to fond wordlings' sports. 


Fish we take ; 


Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing 


There we sit, 


still, 


For a bit, 


And grief is forced to laugh against her will. 


Till we fish entangle. 


Where mirth 's but mummery. 




And sorrows only real be. 


Wp have gentles in a horn. 




We have paste and worms too ; 


Fly from our country pastimes, fly. 


We can watch both night and morn, 


Sad troops of human misery, 


Suffer rain and storms too ; 


Come, serene looks. 


None do here 


Clear as the crystal brooks. 


Use to swear : 


Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see 


Oaths do fray 


The rich attendance on our poverty ; 


Fish away ; 


Peace and a secure mind. 


We sit still, 


Which all men seek, we only find. 


Watch our quill : 




Fishers must not wrangle. 


Abused mortals ! did you know 




Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow. 


If the sun's excessive heat 


You'd scorn proud towers. 


Make our bodies swelter, 


And seek them in these bowers, 


To an osier hedge we get, 


Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps 


For a friendly shelter ; 


may shake. 


Where— in a dyke. 


But blustering care could never tempest make ; 


Perch or pike. 


Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. 


Eoach or daice. 


Saving of fountains that glide by us. 


We do chase, 




Bleak or gudgeon. 


Here's no fantastic mask nor dance. 


Without grudging ; 


But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 


We are still contented. 


Nor wars are seen. 




Unless upon the green 


Or, we sometimes pass an hour 


Two harmless lambs are butting one the other. 


Under a green willow, 


Which done, both bleating run, each to his 


That defends us from a shower. 


mother ; 


Making earth our pillow ; 


And wounds are never found. 


Where we may 


Save what the ploughshare gives the 


Think and pray, 


ground. 



4 



THE BOBOLINK, 



23 



Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten to, too hasty fates ; 

Unless it be 

The fond credulity 
Of silly fish, which (wordling like) still look 
Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 

Nor envy, 'less among 

The birds, for price of their sweet song. 

Go, let the diving negro seek 

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; 

We all pearls scorn. 

Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
"Which careless shepherds beat down as they 
pass; 

And gold ne'er here appears. 

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Bless'd silent groves, oh, may you be. 
For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 

May pure contents 

For ever pitch their tents 
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, 

these mountains; 
And peace still slumber by these purliug 
fountains. 

Which we may every year 

Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 

SiE Heney Wotton. 



THE ANGLEE'S WISH. 

I IN these flowery meads would be : 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I, with my angle, would rejoice, 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love : 



Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty : please my mind, 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
And then washed off by AprU showers ; 
Here, hear my kenna sing a song : 
There, see a blackbird feed her young, 



Or a laverock buud her nest : 

Here, give my weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 

Or, with my Bryan and a book. 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 

There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away ; 

And angle on ; and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

IZAAK WALTOIT. 



THE BOBOLIiTK. 

Bobolink ! that in the meadow, 
Or beneath the orchard's shadow, 
Keepest up a constant rattle 
Joyous as my children's prattle, 
Welcome to the north again ! 
Welcome to mine ear thy strain. 
Welcome to mine eye the sight 
Of thy buff, thy black and white. 
Brighter plumes may greet the sun 
By the banks of Amazon ; 
Sweeter tones may weave the spell 
Of enchanting Philomel ; 
But the tropic bird would fail. 
And the English nightingale. 
If we should compare their worth 
With thine endless, gushing mirth. 

When the ides of May are past, 
June and Summer nearing fast. 
While from depths of blue above 
Comes the mighty breath of love. 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power, — 
Waking hope and fond desire. 
Kindling the erotic fire, — 
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
With mysterious, pleasing themes ; 
Then, amid the sunlight clear 



24 POEMS OF 


NATUEE. 


Floating in the fragrant air, 


Delightful visitant ! with thee 


Tliou dost fill each heart with pleasure 


I hail the time of flowers, 


By thy glad ecstatic measure. 


And hear the sound of music sweet 




From birds among the bowers. 


A single note, so sweet and low, 




Like a full heart's overflow, 


The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 


Forms the prelude ; but the strain 


To pull the primrose gay. 


Gives us no such tone again, 


Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, 


For the wild and saucy song 


And imitates thy lay. 


Leaps and skips the notes among. 




"With such quick and sportive play, 


What time the pea puts on the bloom, 


Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 


Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 




An annual guest in other lands, 


Gayest songster of the Spring! 


O 7 

Another Spring to hail. 


Thy melodies before me bring 


tr O 


Visions of some dream-built land. 




"Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 
I might walk the livelong day. 
Embosomed in perpetual May. 
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 


Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No Winter in thy year ! 


For thee a tempest never blows ; 




But when our northern Summer 's o'er. 


Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! 


By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 


We'd make, with joyful wing. 


The wild rice lifts its airy head, 


Our annual visit o'er the globe, 


And royal feasts for thee are spread. 


Attendants on the Spring. 


And when the Winter threatens there. 


John Logan. 


Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. 
But bear thee to more Southern coasts, 






Far beyond the reach of frosts. 






TO THE CUCKOO. 


Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 




Take from me all taints of sadness ; 


BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard. 


Fill my soul with trust unshaken 


I hear thee and rejoice. 


Li that Being who has taken 


Cuckoo ! shaU I call thee bird, 


Care for every living thing. 


Or but a wandering voice ? 


In Snmmerj Winter, Fall and Spring. 




Thomas Hill. 






While I am lying on the grass. 




Thy twofold shout I hear ; 






From hill to hill it seems to pass, 


TO THE CUCKOO. 


At once far off, and near. 


Fatl. beauteous stranger of the grove! 


Though babbling only to the vale, 


Thou messenger of Spring ! 


Of sunshine and of flowers. 


Now heaven repairs thy rural seat. 


Thou bringest unto me a tale 


And woods thy welcome sing. 


Of visionary hours. 


Soon as the daisy decks the green, 


Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring I 


Thy certain voice we hear. 


Even yet thou art to me 


Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 


No bird, but an invisible thing, 


Or mark the rolling year? 


A voice, a mystery ; 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



25 



The same that in my school-boy days 
I listened to — that cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways, 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love — 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

blessed bird 1 the earth we pace, 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place. 
That is fit home for thee ! 

William Woedswokth. 



THE OUOKOO AND THE NIGHTIN- 
GALE. 



The God of Love, — ah denedicite ! 
How mighty and how great a lord is he ! 
For he of low hearts can make high ; of high 
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh ; 
And hard hearts, he can make them kind and 

free. 

II. 
Within a little time, as hath been found. 
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and 

sound: 
Them who are whole in body and in mind. 
He can make sick ; bind can he and unbind 
All that he will have bound, or have unbound. 

III. 

To tell his might my wit may not suffice ; 
Foolish men he can make them out of wise — 
For he may do all that he will devise ; 
Loose livers he can make abate their vice, 
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. 

rv. 

In brief, the whole of what he will, he may ; 
Against him dare not any wight say nay ; 



To humble or afflfct whome'er he will, 
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; 
But most his might he sheds on the eve of 
May. 

V. 

For every true heart, gentle heart and free, 
That with him is, or thinketh so to be. 
Now, against May, shall have some stirring, — 

whether 
To joy, or be it to some mourning ; never. 
At other time, methinks, in like degree. 

VI. 

For now, when they may hear the small birds' 

song. 
And see the budding leaves the branches 

throng. 
This unto their rememberance doth bring 
All kinds of pleasure, mixed with sorrowing ; 
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. 

vn. 
And of that longing heaviness doth come, 
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and 

home; 
Sick are they all for lack of their desire ; 
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire. 
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 

vni. 
In sooth, I speak from feeling ; what though 

now 
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; 
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, 
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every 

day,— 
How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 



Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 
Through all this May, that I have little sleep ; 
And also 't is not likely unto me, 
That any living heart should sleepy be, 
In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. 



But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, 
I of a token thought, which lovers heed ; 
How among them it was a common tale, 
That it was good to hear the nightingale 
Ere the vile cuckoo's note t)e uttered. 



26 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



XI. 

And then I thonglit anon, as it was day, 
I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
If I perchance a nightingale might hear ; 
For yet had I heard none, of all that year ; 
And it was then the third night of the May. 

xn. 

And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, 

No longer would I in my bed abide ; 

But straightway to a wood, that was hard by. 

Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly. 

And held the pathway down by a brook-side ; 



Till to a lawn I came, all white and green ; 

I in so fair a one had never been. 

The ground was green, with daisy powdered 

over; 
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover. 
All green and white ; and nothing else was 

seen. 

xrv. 

There sat I down among the fair, fresh 

flowers. 
And saw the birds come tripping from their 

bowers, 
Where they had rested them all night ; and 

they, 
"Who were so joyful at the light of day, 
Began to honor May with all their powers. 

XV. 

"Well did they know that service all by rote ; 

And there was many and many a lovely note — 

Some, singing loud, as if they had com- 
plained ; 

Some with their notes another manner 
feigned ; 

And some did sing aU out with the full throat. 

XVI. 

They pruned themselves, and made them- 
selves right gay. 
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; 
And ever two and two together were. 
The same as they had chosen for the year, 
Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 



Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sat upon, 
"Was making such a noise as it ran on. 
Accordant to the sweet birds' harmony ; 
Methought that it was the best melody 
"Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 

XV 111. 

And for delight, but how I never wot, 
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, 
Not aU asleep and yet not waking wholly ; 
And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, 
Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 

XIX. 

And that was right upon a tree fast by. 
And who was then ill satisfied but I ? 
Now God, quoth I, that died upon the rood. 
From thee and thy base throat keep all that's 

good; 
Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 

XX. 

And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, 
In the next bush that was me fast beside, 
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, 
That her clear voice made a loud rioting, 
Echoing through all the greenwood wide. 

XXI. 

Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart's 

cheer. 
Hence hast thou stayed a little while too 

long; 
For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, 
And she hath been before thee with her 

song; 
Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. 

xxn. 

But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray ; 
As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, 
Methought I wist right well what these birds 

meant. 
And had good knowing both of their intent, 
And of their speech, and all that they would 

say. 

xxin. 
The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : — 
Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



2*7 



And, prithee, let us, that can sing, dwell here ; 
For every wight eschews thy song to hear, 
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 

XXIV. 

What ! quoth she then, what is 't that ails 

thee now ? 
It seems to me I sing as well as thou ; 
For mine's a song that is both true and 

plain, — 
Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. 

XXV. 

All men may understanding have of me. 
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee ; 
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint 

cry:— 
Thou sayst Osee, Osee, then how may I 
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may 

be? 

XXVI. 

Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is? 
Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis. 
Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain 
That shamefully they one and all were slain. 
Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 

xxvn. 
And also would I that they all were dead. 
Who do not think in love their life to lead ; 
For who is loth the God of Love to obey 
Is only fit to die, I dare well say ; 
And for that cause Osee I cry ; take heed ! 



Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law — 
That all must love or die ; but I withdraw, 
And take my leave of all such company, 
For my intent it neither is to die. 
Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 

XXIX. 

For lovers, of all folk that be alive, 
The most disquiet have, and least do thrive ; 
Most feeling have of sorrow, woe, and care. 
And the least welfare cometh to their share ; 
What need is there against the truth to strive? 



What! quoth she, thou art aU out of thy mind. 
That, in thy churlishness, a cause canst find 



To speak of Love's true servants in this mood; 
For in this world no service is so good, 
To everv wight that gentle is of kind. 



For thereot comes all goodness and all worth ; 
All gentiless and honor thence come forth ; 
Thence worship comes, content, and true 

heart's pleasure. 
And fuU-assured trust, joy without measure. 
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth ; 

xxxn. 
And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, 
And seemliness, and faithful company, 
And dread of shame that will not do amiss ; 
For he that faithfully Love's servant is, 
Eather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. 



And that tne very truth it is which I 
Now say, — ^in such belief I '11 live and die ; 
And, Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. 
Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, 
If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 

XXXIV. 

Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous 

fair. 
Yet, for all that, the truth is found elsewhere ; 
For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis. 
And Love in old folk a great dotage is ; 
Who most it useth, him 't wiU most impair. 

XXXV. 

For thereof come all contraries to gladness ; 
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming 

sadness. 
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, 
Dishcpor, shame, envy importunate, 
Pride,'anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. 

XXXVT. 

Loving is aye an office of despair. 

And one thing is therein which is not fair ; 

For whoso gets of love a little bliss. 

Unless it always stay with him, I wis 

He may fall soon go with an old man's hair. 

XXXVII. 

And therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep 

nigh: 
For, trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, 



28 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, 
Thou 'It be as others that forsaken are ; 
Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do I. 

xxxvm. 

Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen I 
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen. 
For thou art worse than mad a thousand-fold ; 
For many a one hath virtues manifold, 
Who had been naught, if Love had never been. 

XXXIX. 

For evermore his servants Love amendeth, 
And he from every blemish them defendeth ; 
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, 
Li loyalty and worshipful desire ; 
And, when it likes him, joy enough them 
sendeth. 



Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be still. 
For Love no reason hath but his own will;— 
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; 
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy. 
He lets them perish through that grievous ilL 

XLI. 

With such a master would I never be. 
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, 
And knows not when he hurts and when he 

heals; 
Within his court full seldom Truth avails, 
So diverse in his wilfulness is he. 

XLH. 

Then of the l^ightingale did I take note — 
How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, 
And said : Alas that ever I was born ! 
Not one word have I now, I 'm so forlorn : 
And with that word, she into tears burst out. 

XLin. 
Alas, alas I my very heart will break. 
Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus 

speak 
Of Love, and of his holy services ; 
Now, God of Love ! thou help me in some 

wise. 
That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. 



XIIV. 

And so, methought, I started up anon, 
And to the brook I ran and got a stone. 
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, 
That he for dread did fly away full fast; 
And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 



And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, 
Kept crying: "Farewell! — ^farewell, Popin- 
jay!" 
As if in scornful mockery of me ; 
And on I hunted him from tree to tree, 
Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 



Then straightway came the Nightingale to 

me. 
And said : Forsooth, my friend, do I thank 

thee. 
That thou wert near to rescue me ; and now 
Unto the God of Love I make a vow, 
That aU this May I will thy songstress be. 

XLvn. 
Well satisfied, I thanked her ; and she said, 
By this mishap no longer be dismayed. 
Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou 

heard'st me : 
Yet if I live it shall amended be. 
When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 

xLvm. 

And one thing will I counsel thee also. 
The Cuckoo trust not, thou, nor his Love's 

saw; 
AU that he said is an outrageous lie. 
Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, 
For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. 



Yea, hath it? Use, quoth she, this medicine : 
This May-time, every day before thou dine, 
Go look on the fresh daisy ; then say I, 
Although, for pain, thou mayst be like to die. 
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and 
pine. 

L. 

And mind always that thou be good and true, 
And I will sing one song, of many new, 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



29 



For love of thee, as loud as I may cry. 
And then did she begin this song full high, 
" Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." 

LI. 

And soon as she had sung it to an end, 
Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must 

wend; 
And, God of Love, that can right well and 

may. 
Send unto thee as mickle joy this day. 
As ever he to lover yet did send. 

LII. 

Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; 
I pray to God with her always to be, 
And joy of love to send her evermore; 
And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore. 
For there is not so false a bird as she. 

LIII. 

Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, 
To all the birds that lodged within that dale. 
And gathered each and all into one place, 
And them besought to hear her doleful case ; 
And thus it was that she began her tale. 

LIV. 

The Cuckoo, — 't is not well that I should 

hide 
How she and I did each the other chide. 
And without ceasing, since it was daylight ; 
And now I pray you all to do me right 
Of that false bird, whom Love cannot abide. 



Then spake one bird, and full assent all gave. 
This matter asketh counsel good as grave ; 
For birds we are — all here together brought; 
And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not ; 
And therefore we a Parhament will have. 

LVI. 

And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
And other Peers whose names are on record. 
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, 
And judgment there be given; or, that intent 
Failing, we finally shall make accord. 

Lvn. 
And all this shall be done, without a nay, 
The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, 



Under a maple that is well beseen 
Before the chamber- window of the Queen, 
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and 

gay. 

Lvin. 
She thanked them ; and then her leave she 

took. 
And flew into a hawthorn by that brook ; 
And there she sat and sung, upon that tree, 
" For term of life Love shall have hold of 

me,"— 
So loudly, that I with that song awoke. 



Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, — 
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, — 
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow 
To appear before my Lady ? But a sense 
Thou surely hast of her benevolence. 
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness 

To show to her some pleasant meanings, writ 

In winning words, since through her genti- 

less 
Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 
Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit 
Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give ; 
For of aU good she is the best alive. 

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 
Though I be far from her I reverence. 
To think upon my truth and steadfastness ; 
And to abridge my sorrow's violence 
Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, 
She of her liking proof to me would give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

l'envoy. 
Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness ! 
Luna by night, with heavenly influence 
Illumined ! root of beauty and goodness ! 
Write, and allay, by yom* beneficence, 
My sighs breathed forth in silence, — comfort 

give! 
Since of all good you are the best alive. 

Geoffbet Chauobe. 
Version of William 'Woebswoeth. 



30 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



SONG. 

See, O see ! 

How every tree, 

Every bower, 

Every flower, 
A new life gives to others' joys ; 

While that I 

Grief-stricken lie, 

N'or can meet 

With any sweet 
But what faster mine destroys. 
What are all the senses' pleasm'es, 
When the mind has lost all measures ? 

Hear, hear ! 

How sweet and clear 

The nightingale 

And water's fall 
In concert join for others' ear ; 

While to me, 

For harmony, 

Every air 

Echoes despair. 
And every drop provokes a tear. 
What are all the senses' pleasures, 
When the soul has lost all measures ? 

LoED Beistol. 



THE GKEEN LINNET. 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs, that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head. 
With brightest sunshine round me spread, 

Of Spring's unclouded weather — 
In this sequestered nook, how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 
Hail to thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array. 
Presiding spirit here to-day. 
Dost lead the revels of the May, 

And this is thy dominion. 



While birds, and butterflies, and flowers 
Make all one band of paramours. 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A life, a presence like the air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair — 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze. 
Behold him perched in ecstasies. 

Yet seeming still to hover ; 
There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 

That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 
A brother of the dancing leaves — 
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 

Pours forth a song in gushes ; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked, and treated with disdain, 
The voiceless form he chose to feign, 

WhUe fluttering in the bushes. 

WlXLIAM WOEDSWOETH. 



THE BLACK COOK. 

GooD-MOEEOW to thy sable beak, 
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek ; 
Thy crimson moon and azure eye — 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy ! 
I see thee slowly cowering through 
That wiry web of silver dew. 
That t^-inkles in the morning air 
Like casement of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower, 
Who, peeping from her early bower, 
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile, 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 
The rarest things, with wayward wiU, 
Beneath the covert hide them still ; 
The rarest things, to light of day 
Look shortly forth, and break away. 



ARETHUSA. 



31 



One fleeting moment of delight 
I warmed me in her cheering sight ; 
And short, I ween, the time will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowdon's mist, red beams the day ; 
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring ; 
Thou art already on the wing. 

Joanna Baiiub. 



TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY. 

Silence, all ! ye winged choir ; 
Let not yon Right Reverend sire 
Hear your happy symphony : 
'Tis too good for such as he. 

On the day of rest divine, 
He poor townsfolk would confine 
In their crowded streets and lanes, 
TVTiere they cannot hear your strains. 

AU the week they drudge away, 
Having but one holiday — 
No more time for you, than that — 
Unlike bishops, rich and fat. 

Utter not your cheerful sounds, 
Therefore, in the bishop's grounds ; 
Make him melody no more, 
"Who denies you to the poor. 

Linnet, hist ! and blackbird, hush ! 
Throstle, be a songless thrush ; 
Nightingale and lark, be mute ; 



Robin, at the twilight dim, 
Never let thine evening hymn — 
Bird of red and ruthful breast — 
Lend the bishop's port a zest. 

Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours, 
Keeping us from fields and flowers, 
Who to pen us tries, instead, 
'Mong the intramural dead. 



Only let the' raven croak 
At him from the rotten oak ; 
Let the magpie and the jay 
Chatter at him on his way. 

And when he to rest has laid him, 
Let his ears the screech-owl harry ; 

And the night-jar serenade him 
With a proper charivari. 

Anonymous. 



ARETHUSA. 

Aeethttsa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 

From cloud and from crag 

With many a jag. 
Shepherding her bright fountains. 

She leapt down the rocks 

With her rainbow locks 
Streaming among the streams ; — 

Her steps paved with green 

The downward ravine 
Which slopes to the western gleams : 

And, gliding and springing. 

She went, ever singing 
In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The Earth seemed to love her, 

And Heaven smiled above her, 
As she lingered towards the deep. 

Then Alpheus bold. 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook ; 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks ; — ^with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind. 

It concealed behind 
The m^ns of the silent snow ; 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below : 

The beard and the hair 

Of the river-god were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep. 

As he followed the light 



32 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


Of the fleet nymph's flight 


At noon-tide they flow 


To the brink of the Dorian deep. 


Through the woods below, 




And the meadows of Asphodel ; 


" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 


And at night they sleep 


And bid the deep hide me, 


In the rocking deep 


For he grasps me now by the hair ! " 


Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — 


The loud Ocean heard, 


Like spirits that lie 


To its blue depth stirred. 


In the azure sky, 


And divided at her prayer ; 


When they love but live no more. 


And under the water 


Peeoy Bysshb Shbllkt. 


The Earth's white daughter 
Fled like a snnny beam ; 






Behind her descended 


THE FOUNTAIN. 


Her billows, unblended 




"With the brackish Dorian stream. 


Into the sunshine, 


Like a gloomy stain 


Full of light, 


On the emerald main, 


Leaping and flashing 


Alpheus rushed behind, — 


From morn till night ; 


As an eagle pursuing 


Into the moonlight, 


A dove to its ruin 


Whiter than snow, 


Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 


Waving so flower-like. 




When the winds blow! 


Fnder the bowers 




Where the Ocean powers 


Into the starlight, 


Sit on their pearled thrones ; 


Eushing in spray, 


Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods, 


Happy at midnight — 
Happy by day! 


Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 


Ever in motion, 


Through the dim beams 


Blithesome and cheery, 


"Which amid the streams 


Still climbing heavenward, 


Weave a net-work of colored light ; 


Never aweary ; 


And under the caves, 




Where the shadowy waves 


Glad of all weathers. 


Are as green as the forest's night — 


Still seeming best, 


Outspeeding the shark, 


Upward or downward, 


And the sword-fish dark, 


Motion thy rest ; 


Under the ocean foam ; 


FuU of a nature 


And up through the rifts 


Nothing can tame. 


Of the mountain clifts 


Changed every moment — 


They passed to their Dorian home. 


Ever the same ; 


And now from their fountains 


Ceaseless aspiring. 


In Enna's mountains, 


Ceaseless content. 


Down one vale where the morning basks, 


Darkness or sunshine 


Like friends once parted, 


Thy element ; 


Grown single-hearted, 


Glorious fountain ! 


They ply their watery tasks. 


Let my heart be 


At sunrise they leap 


Fresh, changeful, constant. 


From their cradles steep 


Upward, like thee ! 


In the cave of the shelving hill ; 


James Kussell Lowell. 



LITTLE STREAMS. 33 




Fretting like a peevish child ; 


LITTLE STEEAMS. 


Through the hamlet, where all day 




In their waves the children play ; 


Little streams are light and shadow. 


Running west, or running east. 


Flowing through the pasture meadow, 


Doing good to man and beast — 


Flowing by the green way-side, 


Always giving, weary never. 


Through the forest dim and wide, 


Little streams, I love you ever. 


Through the hamlet still and small— 


Maky Howitb 


By the cottage, by the hall, 




By the ruin'd abbey still ; 




Turning here and there a miU, 




Bearing tribute to the river — 


THE WATER ! THE WATER ! 


Little streams, I love you ever. 






The Water! the Water! 


Summer music is there flowing — 


The joyous brook for me. 


Flowering plants in them are growing; 


That tuneth through the quiet night 


Happy life is in them all. 


Its ever-living glee. 


Creatures innocent and small ; 


The Water! the Water! 


Little birds come down to drink. 


That sleepless, merry heart, 


Fearless of their leafy brink ; 


Which gurgles on unstintedly. 


Noble trees beside them grow. 


And loveth to impart. 


Glooming them with branches low ; 


To all around it, some small measure 


And between, the sunshine, glancing, 


Of its own most perfect pleasure. 


In their little waves, is dancing. 






The Water! the Water! 


Little streams have flowers a many. 


The gentle stream for me, 


Beautiful and fair as any ; 


That gushes from the old gray stone, 


Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; 


Beside the alder-tree. 


Willow-herb, with cotton-seed ; 


The Water ! the Water ! 


Arrow-head, with eye of jet ; 


That ever-bubbling spring 


And the water-violet. 


I loved and looked on while a child. 


There the flowering-rush you meet, 


In deepest wondering, — 


And the plumy meadow-sweet ; 


And asked it whence it came and went. 


And, in places deep and stilly. 


And when its treasures would be spent. 


Marble-like, the water-lily. 






The Water! the Water! 


Little streams, their voices cheery, 


The merry, wanton brook 


Sound forth welcomes to the weary • 


That bent itself to pleasure me. 


Flowing on from day to day. 


Like mine old shepherd crook. 


Without stint and without stay ; 


The Water! the Water! 


Here, upon their flowery bank, 


That sang so sweet at noon, 


In the old time pilgrims drank — 


And sweeter still all night, to win 


Here have seen, as now, pass by, 


Smiles from the pale, proud moon, 


King-fisher, and dragon-fly ; 


And from the little fairy faces 


Those bright things that have their dwelling. 


That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 


Where the little streams are welling. 






The Water! the Water! 


Down in valleys green and lowly, 


The dear and blessed thing. 


Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; 


That aU day fed the little flowers 


Up in mountain-hollows wild, 
3 


On its banks blossoming. 



84 POEMS OF NATURE. 


The Water! the Water! 




That murmured in my ear 


SONG OF THh; BKOOK. 


Hymns of a saint-like purity, 




That angels well might hear, 


I COME from haunts of coot and hern ; 


And whisper in the gates of heaven, 


I make a sudden sally 


How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. 


And sparkle out among the fern, 




To bicker down a valley. 


The Water! the Water! 




Where I have shed salt tears. 


By thirty hills I hurry down, 


In loneliness and friendliness. 


Or slip between the ridges ; 


A thing of tender years. 


By twenty thorps, a little town. 


The Water! the Water! 


And half a hundred bridges. 


Where I have happy been, 




And showered upon its bosom flowers 


Till last by Philip's farm I flow 


Culled from each meadow green ; 


To join the brimming river ; 


And idly hoped my life would be 


For men may come and men may go. 


So crowned by love's idolatry. 


But I go on for ever. 


The Water ! the Water ! 


I chatter over stony ways. 


My heart yet burns to think 


In little sharps and trebles ; 


How cool thy fountain sparkled forth. 


I bubble into eddying bays. 


For parched lip to drink. 


I babble on the pebbles. 


The Water! the Water! 




Of mine own native glen — 


With many a curve my banks I fret 


The gladsome tongue I oft have heard. 


By many a field and fallow. 


But ne'er shall hear again. 


And many a fairy foreland set 


Though fancy fills my ear for aye 


With willow-weed and maUow. 


With sounds that live so far away ! 






I chatter, chatter, as I flow 


The Water! the Water! 


To join the brimming river ; 


The mild and glassy wave, 


For men may come and men may go, 


Upon whose broomy banks I 've longed 


But I go on for ever. 


To find my silent grave. 




The Water! the Water! 


I wind about, and in and out. 


0, blest to me thou art ! 


With here a blossom sailing, 


Thus sounding in life's solitude 


And here and there a lusty trout. 


The music of my heart, 


And here and there a grayling. 


And filling it, despite of sadness, 


And here and there a foamy flake 
Ilpon me, as I travel, 


With dreamings of departed gladness. 


The Water! the Water! 


With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel ; 


The mournful, pensive tone 




That whispered to my heart how soon 


And draw them all along, and flow 


This weary life was done. 


To join the brimming river ; 


The Water ! the Water ! 


For men may come and men may go, 


That rolled so bright and free, 


But I go on for ever. 


And bade me mark how beautiful 




Was its soul's purity ; 


I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 


And how it glanced to heaven its wave. 


I slide by hazel covers ; 


As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 


I move the sweet forget-me-nots 


William Motherwell. 


That grow for happy lovers. 



NATURE. 35 

•• 


I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 


And flowers azure, black and streaked with 


Among my skimming swallows ; 


gold. 


I make the netted sunbeam dance 


Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 


Against my sandy shallows. 






And nearer to the river's trembling edge, 


I murmur under moon and stars 


There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt 


In brambly wildernesses ; 


with white ; 


I Imger by my shingly bars ; 


And starry river buds among the sedge 


I loiter round my cresses ; 


And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 




Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 


And out again I curve and flow 


With moonlight beams of their own watery 


To join the brimming river ; 


light; 


For men may come and men may go, 


And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 


But I go on for ever. 


As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 


Alfeed Tenktson. 




. 


Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 






That the same hues, which in their natural 


THE QUESTIOIsr. 


bowers 




Were mingled or opposed, the like array 


I DEEAMED that, as I wandered by the way, 


Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 


Bare Winter was changed suddenly to Spring, 


Within my hand — and then, elate and gay. 


And gentle odors led my steps astray. 


I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 


Mixed with the sound of waters murmuring. 


That I might there present it! Oh to whom? 


Along a shelvy bank of turf, which lay 


Peecy Bysshe Shelley. 


Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 




Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 


« 


But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest 




in a dream. 


KATUEE. 


There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 


The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 


Daisies — those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 


Because my feet flnd measure with its call ; 


The constellated flower that never sets ; 


The birds know when the friend they love is 


Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose 


nigh. 


birth 


For I am known to them, both great and 


The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower 


small. 


that wets 


The flower that on the lonely hiU-side grows 


Its mother's face with heaven-coUected tears. 


Expects me there when Spring its bloom has 


When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it 


given; 


hears. 


And many a tree and bush my wanderings 




knows. 


And in the warm hedge grew bush-eglantine. 


And e'en the clouds and silent stars of hea- 


Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored 


ven; 


May; 


For he who with his Maker walks aright, 


And cherry-blossoms, and white caps whose 


Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 


wine 


His ear shall catch each sound with new de- 


Was the bright dew yet drained not by the 


light. 


day; 


Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 


And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 


And he, as when erect in soul he stood. 


With its dark buds and leaves wandering 


Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 


astray; 


Jones Veet. 



86 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies ; 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a sun that sets. 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story : 
There 's a flower that shall be mine, 
'Tis the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star ; 
Up and down the heavens they go, 
Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
I'm as great as they, I trow. 
Since the day I found thee out. 
Little flower ! — ^I '11 make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an elf 
B.old, and lavish of thyself; 
Since we needs must first have met, 
I have seen thee, high and low. 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'T was a face I did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush. 

In the time before the thrush 

Has a thought about her nest. 

Thou wilt come with half a call. 

Spreading out thy glossy breast 

Like a careless prodigal ; 

Telling tales about the sun. 

When we 've little warmth, or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
Travel with the multitude : 
Never heed them ; I aver 
That they all are wanton wooers ; 
But the thrifty cottager. 
Who stirs little out of doors, 
Joys to spy thee near at home ; 
Spring is coming, thou art come ! 

Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
Kindly, unassuming spirit ! 



Careless of thy neighborhood. 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ; — there 's not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be. 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 

HI befall the yellow flowers. 
Children of the flaring Hours ! 
Buttercups, that will be seen. 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do. 
Taken praise that should be thine. 
Little, humble Celandine. 

Prophet of delight and mirth. 
Ill-requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band. 
Of a joyous train ensuing ; 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behoove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love ! 

William Woedswoeth. 



TO VIOLETS. 

Welcome, maids of honor, 

You do bring 

In the Spring, 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many. 

Fresh and fair ; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

Y' are the Maiden Posies, 

And so graced. 

To be placed, 
'Fore damask roses. 

Yet though thus respected. 

By and by 

Ye do lie, 
Poor girls, neglected, 

EOBEET HeEEICK. 



FLOWERS. 



37 



TO PRIMROSES, 

FILLED WITH MOENING DEW. 

"Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew ? 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a flower ; 
Nor felt th' unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind; 
Nor are ye worn with years ; 
Or warped, as we. 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make 
known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep. 
Or childish lullaby? 
Or, that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet? 

Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this ? 
No, no ; this sorrow, shown 
By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read : — 
"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears 
brought forth." 

Egbert Heeeick. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Faie pledges of a fruitful tree. 
Why do ye fall so fast? 
Your date is not so past 

But you. may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile. 
And go at last. 

What ! were ye born to be 
An hour or half's delight, 
And so to bid good-night ? 



'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth. 
Merely to show your worth. 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 

And, after they have shown their pride 

Like you awhile, they glide, 

Into the grave. 

KoBEET Heeeick. 



TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils ! we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon : 
Stay, stay 

Until the hastening day 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you , 

We have as short a Spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or any thing : 

We die. 
As your lionrs do ; and dry 

Away 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew. 
Ne'er to be found again. 

EoBEET Heeeick. 



DAFFODILS. 

I WANDEEED, loucly as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd — 

A host of golden daffodils 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Flutt'ring and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 



S8 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Ten thousand saw I, at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay. 

In such a jocund company; 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

"What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie, 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude, 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 

WnXLAM "WOEDSWOETH. 



TKATLma ARBUTUS. 

Darlings of the forest ! 
Blossoming, alone, 
"When Earth's grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone — 
Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender 
buds have blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 
Like the morning sky. 
Or, more pale and saintly, 
"Wrapped in leaves ye lie — 
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There the wild wood-robin, 
Hymns your solitude ; 
And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
"While the low south wind sighs, but dare not 
be more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 
Out of air and dew — 
Starlight unimpassioned. 
Dawn's most tender hue. 
And scented by the woods that gathered 
sweets for you ? 

Fairest and most lonely, 
From the Avorld apart ; 
Made for beauty only. 



Veiled from Nature's heart 
With such unconscious grace as makes the 
dream of Art ! 

Were not mortal sorrow 
An immortal shade. 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made. 
And live in the dear woods where my lost 
childhood played. 

EoSE Tekey. 



THE flHODORA. 

LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE 
FLO WEE ? 

In May, when sea- winds pierced our soli- 
tudes, 
I found the fresh Bhodora in the woods 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook : 
The purple petals faUen in the pool 
Made the black waters with their beauty 

gay- 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to 
cool, 
And court the flower that cheapens his 
array. 
Bhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for 

seeing. 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why thou wert there, O, rival of the rose ! 
I never thought to ask ; I never knew, 
But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, 

brought you. 

Ealph Waldo Ejjeeson. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TIJENING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 
IN APEIL 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 



THE DAISY. 



89 



Alas ! it 's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet 

Wi' speckled breast. 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm — 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun 

shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ; 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
"Who long with wants and woes has striven. 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink ! 



Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 

EOBEKT BtTENS. 



TO A DAISY. 

Theee is a flower, a little flower 
With silver crest and golden eye, 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
And weathers every sky. 

The prouder beauties of the field, 
In gay but quick succession shine ; 
Eace after race their honors yield, 
They flourish and decline. 

But this small flower, to Kature dear. 
While moons and stars their courses run, 
Enwreathes the circle of the year. 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charm, 
Lights pale October on his way. 
And twines December's arm. 

The purple heath and golden broom. 
On moory mountains catch the gale ; 
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume. 
The violet in the vale. 

But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen. 
Plays on the margin of the riU, 
Peeps round the fox's den. 

Within the garden's cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; 
And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 

• 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
The wild bee murmurs on its breast ; 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem. 
Light o'er the skylark's nest. 



40 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



'Tis Flora's page — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair ; 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms every vrhere. 

On waste and woodland, rock and plain. 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 
The rose has but a summer reign ; 
The Daisy never dies ! 

James Montgomeey. 



TO THE DAISY. 



Her divine skill taught me tMs : 
That from every thing I saw 
I could some instruction draw, 
And raise pleasure to the height 
Through the meanest object's sigh 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustelling ; 
By a daisy whose leaves spread 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree, 
She could more infuse in me. 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man. 

Geoege 



In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hiU to hill, in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent — 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature's love partake. 

Of thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee, Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs. 

That she may sun thee ; 
"Whole summer-fields are thine by right ; 
And Autumn, melancholy wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

"When rains are on thee. 

lu shoals and bands, a morrice train. 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again, 

Yet nothing daunted 
Nor grieved, if thou be set at naught : 



And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought 
When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their sacred mews 

The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling ; 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly. 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 



A hundred times, by rock or bower. 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy, wrong or right ; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn. 

And one chance look to thee should turn, 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds * 

The common life our nature breeds ; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 



Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay. 
Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness ; 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest, 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 



THE DAISY. 



41 



And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 

To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course, — when day 's begun, 
As ready to salute the sun 

As lark or leveret — 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain, 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite. 



TO THE SAME FLOWEE. 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy ; — 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homely face. 
And yet with something of a grace, 

Which love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes — 

Loose types of things through all degrees. 

Thoughts of thy raising ; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame. 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden of Love's court. 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best. 

Thy appellations. 



A little Cyclops with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next, — and instantly 

The freak is over ; 
The shape will vanish, — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar, — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest, 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Bright flower ! for by that name at last, 

When all my reveries are past, 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, — 

Sweet, silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
Mj heart with gladness and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 

William Wordswoeth. 



SONG OF SPEING. 

Laud the first Spring daisies ; 

Ohaunt aloud their praises ; 

Send the children up 

To the high hill's top ; 

Tax not the strength of their young hands 

To increase your lands. 

Gather the primroses, 

Make handfuls into posies ; 

Take them to the little girls who are at work 
in mills : 

Pluck the violets blue, — 

Ah, pluck not a few ! 

Knowest thou what good thoughts from Hea- 
ven the violet instils ? 

Give the children holidays, 
(And let these be jolly days, 



42 POEMS OF NATURE. 


Grant freedom to the children in this joyous 


Are ready to be woven into garlands for tho 


Spring ; 


good. 


Better men, hereafter, 


Or, upon summer earth, 


Shall we have, for laughter 


To die, in virgin worth ; 


Freely shouted to the woods, till all the 


Or to be strewn before the bride, 


echoes ring. 


And the bridegroom, by her side. 


Send the children up 




To the high hill's top. 


Come forth on Sundays ; 


Or deep into the wood's recesses, 


Come forth on Mondays ; 


To woo Spring's caresses. 


Come forth on any day ; 




Children, come forth to play : — 


See, the birds together, 


Worship the God of Nature in youi* child- 


In this splendid weather. 


hood; 


Worship God — (for he is God of birds as 


Worship Him at your tasks with best en- 


well as men) : 


deavor ; 


And each feathered neighbor 


Worship Him in your sports ; worship Him 


Enters on his labor, — 


ever ; 


Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet. 


Worship Him in the wildwood ; 


and the wren. 


Worship Him amidst the flowers ; 


As the year advances, 


In the greenwood bowers ; 


Trees their naked branches 


Pluck the buttercups, and raise 


Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green 


Your voices in His praise ! 


apparel. 


Edwakd Youl. 


Insect and wild beast 




Keep no Lent, but feast ; 


* 


Spring breathes upon the earth, and their 




joy 's increased, 
And the rejoicing birds break forth in one 


THE BKOOM-FLO WEE. 


loud carol. 


THE Broom, the yeUow Broom, 




The ancient poet sung it, 


Ah, come and woo the Spring ; 


And dear it is on summer days 


List to the birds that sing ; 


To lie at rest among it. 


Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets : 




Pluck the daisies. 


I know the realms where people say 


Sing their praises ; 


The flowers have not their fellow ; 


Friendship with the flowers some noble 


I know where they shine out like suns, 


thought begets. 


The crimson and the yellow. 


Come forth and gather these sweet elves, 




(More witching are they than the fays of 


I know where ladies live enchained 


old,) 


In luxury's silken fetters, 


Come forth and gather them yourselves ; 


And flowers as bright as glittering gems 


Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth 


Are used for written letters. 


is more than gold. 






But ne'er was flower so fair as this, 


Come, come into the wood ; 


In modern days or olden ; 


Pierce into the bowers 


It groweth on its nodding stem 


Of these gentle flowers. 


Like to a garland golden. 


Which, not in solitude 




Dwell, but with each other keep society : 


And all about my mother's door 


And with a simple piety, 


Shine out its glittering bushes, 

1 



FLOWERS. 43 


And down the glen, where clear as light 


The primrose t6 the grave is gone ; 


The mountain-water gushes. 


The hawthorn flower is dead ; 




The violet by the mossed gray stone 


Take all the rest ; but give me this, 


Hath laid her weary head ; 


And the bird that nestles in it ; 




I love it, for it loves the Broom — 


But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 


The green and yellow linnet. 


In all their beauteous power. 




The fresh green days of life's fair Spring, 


"Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, 


And boyhood's blossomy hour. 


And boast of that of Sharon, 


Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 


Of lilies like to marble cups, 


Thou bidd'st me be a boy. 


And the golden rod of Aaron : 


To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 




In freedom and in joy. 


I care not how these flowers may be 


Ebenezek Elliott. 


Beloved of man and woman ; 




The Broom it is the flower for me. 
That groweth on the common. 






the Broom, the yellow Broom, 


THE WILD HO¥EYSUCTa,E. 


The ancient poet sung it. 




And dear it is on summer days 




To lie at rest among it. 


Fair flower, that dost so comely grow. 


Maey Howitt. 


Hid in this silent, dull retreat. 




Untouched thy honeyed blossoms blow, 
Unseen thy little branches greet : 






Ko roving foot shall crush thee here. 


THE BRAMBLE ELOWER. 


No busy hand provoke a tear. 


Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows. 




Wild bramble of the brake ! 


By Nature's self in white arrayed, 


So, put thou forth thy small white rose : 


She bade thee shun the vulgar eye. 


5 ir J 7 

I love it for his sake. 


And planted here the guardian shade. 


Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 


And sent soft waters murmuring by 


O'er all the fragrant bowers, 


Thus quietly thy summer goes — 


Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 


Thy days declining to repose. 


Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 






Smit with those charms, that must decay 


For dull the eye, the heart is dull. 


I grieve to see your future doom; 


That cannot feel how fair, 


They died — ^nor were those flowers more gay — 


Amid all beauty beautiful, ^ 


The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; 


Thy tender blossoms are. 


Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power 


How delicate thy gauzy frill. 


Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 


How rich thy branchy stem, 




How soft thy voice when woods are still. 


From morning suns and evening dews 


And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 


At first thy little being came : 




If nothing once, you nothing lose. 


While silent showers are falling slow, 


For when you die you are the same ; 


i And, 'mid the general hush. 


The space between is but an hour, 


A sweet air lifts the little bough, 


The frail duration of a flower. 


' Lone whispering through the bush ! 


Philip Feenbau-. 



44 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



THE BKIER. 

My brier that smelledst sweet, 
When gentle Spring's first heat 
Ran through thy quiet veins ; 
Thou that couldst injure none, 
But wouldst be left alone. 
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine 
remains. 

What ! hath no poet's lyre 
O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier. 

Hung fondly, ill or well ? 
And yet, methinks, with thee 
A poet's sympathy. 
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, 
might dwell. 

Hard usage both must bear. 
Few hands your youth will rear. 

Few bosoms cherish you ; 

Your tender prime must bleed 

Ere you are sweet ; but, freed 

From life, you then are prized ; thus prized 

are poets too. 

"Waltee Savage Landoe. 



TO THE DANDELION". 

Deae common flower, that grow'st beside 
the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold ! 

First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, up- 
hold— 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that 
they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth's ample round 
May match in wealth ! — thou art more dear 

to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish 
prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas ; 

Nor Avrinkled the lean brow 
of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease. 



'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand ; 
Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
In the white lily's breezy tent. 
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles 
burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass ; 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. 

Where, as the breezes pass. 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways ; 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 
Or whiten in the wind ; of waters blue. 
That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap ; and of a sky above. 
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb 
doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked 
with thee ; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song. 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long ; 

And I, secure in childish piety. 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did 
bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears. 
When birds and flowers and I were happy 
peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem. 
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart. 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret 
show. 
Did we but pay the love we owe. 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On aU these living pages of God's book. 

James Efssell Lowell. 



FLOWERS. 46 




Nor will I dreary rosemarye. 


THE VIOLET. 


That always mourns the dead ; — 




But I will woo the dainty rose. 


! faint, delicious, spring-time violet, 


With her cheeks of tender red. 


Thine odor, like a key. 




Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 


The lily is all in white, like a saint. 


A thought of sorrow free. 


And so is no mate for me — 




And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 


The breath of distant fields upon my brow 


She is of such low degree ; 


Blows through that open door — 


Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves. 


The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet 


And the broom 's betrothed to the bee ; — 


and low. 


But I will plight with the dainty rose. 


And sadder than of yore. 


For fairest of all is she. 




Thomas Hood. 


It comes afar, from that beloved place. 




And that beloved hour, 


♦— — 


When life hung ripening in love's golden 


THE EOSE. 


grace, 




Like grapes above a bower. 


Go, lovely rose ! 




Tell her that wastes her time and me, 


A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 


That now she knows. 


The lark sings o'er my head. 


When I resemble her to thee, 


Drowned in the sky — pass, ye visions, pass! 


How sweet and fair she seems to be. 


I would that I were dead ! — 






Tell her that's young, 


Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 


And shuns to have her graces spied, 


From which I ever flee ? 


That hadst thou sprung 


0, vanished Joy ! Love, that art no more, 


In deserts where no men abide. 


Let my vexed spirit be ! 


Thou must have uncommended died. 


violet ! thy odor through my brain 


SmaU is the worth 


Hath searched, and stung to grief 


Of beauty from the light retired; 


This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 


Bid her come forth — 


Thy velvet leaf. 


Suffer herself to be desired. 


"William W. Sxoet. 


And not blush so to be admired. 




Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 




FLOWERS. 


May read in thee — 




How smaU a part of time they share 


I WILL not have the mad Clytie, 


That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 


Whose head is turned by the sun ; 


EDinrND Waxlbr. 


The tulip is a courtly quean. 
Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 






The cowslip is a country wench 




The violet is a nun ; — 


CANZONET. 


But I will woo the dainty rose, 




The queen of every one. 


Flo WEES are fresh, and bushes green, 




Cheerily the linnets sing ; 


The pea is but a wanton witch. 


Winds are soft, and skies serene ; 


In too much haste to wed, 


Time, however, soon shall throw 


And clasps her rings on every hand ; 


Winter's snow 


The wolfsbane I should dread ; — 


'er the buxom breast of Spring I 



46 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


Hope, that buds in lover's heart, 


The honey-dropping moon, 


Lives not through the scorn of years ; 


On a night in June, 


Time makes love itself depart ; 


Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the 


Time and scorn congeal the mind^ — 


bridegroom pass. 


Looks unkind 


Age, the withered dinger, 


Freeze affection's warmest tears. 


On us mutely gazes. 




And wraps the thought of his last bed in his 


Time shall make the bushes green ; 


childhood's daisies. 


Time dissolve the winter snow ; 




Winds be soft, and skies serene ; 


See (and scorn all duller 


Linnets sing their wonted strain. 


Taste) how Heaven loves color ; 


But again 


How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and 


Blighted love shall never blow ! 


green ; 


Lns DE Camoens, (Portuguese.) 


What sweet thoughts she thinks 


Translation of Loed Steangfoed. 


Of violets and pinks. 




And a thousand flushing hues made solely to 




be seen : 


^^ 


See her whitest lilies 




Chill the silver showers, 


OHOEUS OF FLOWERS. 


And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman 




of her flowers. 


"We are the sweet flowers. 




Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty 
saith ;) 


Uselessness divinest, 
Of a use the finest. 


Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 


Utterance, mute and bright, 
Of some unknown delight. 


Travelers, weary-eyed, 
Bless us, far and wide ; 


"We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple 
breath : 


Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sud- 
den truce : 


All who see us love us — 


Kot a poor town window 


"We befit all places ; 
Unto sorrow we give smiles — and unto graces, 


Loves its sickliest planting. 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylo- 


races. 


nian vaunting. 


Mark our ways, how noiseless 


Sagest yet the uses 


All, and sweetly voiceless. 


Mixed with our sweet juices. 


Though the March-winds pipe to make our 


"Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm ; 


passage clear ; 


As fair fingers healed 


Not a whisper tells 


"Knights from the olden field. 


"Where our small seed dwells, 


"We hold cups of mightiest force to give the 


Kor is known the moment green when our 


wildest calm. 


tips appear. 


Even the terror, poison. 


"We thread the earth in silence. 


Hath its plea for blooming ; 


In silence build our bowers — 


Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to 


And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh 


the presuming. 


a-top, sweet flowers. 






And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 


The dear lumpish baby, 


That thief, the honey -maker. 


Humming with the May-bee, 


"What a house hath he, by the thymy glen I 


Hails us with his bright star, stumbling 


In his talking rooms 


through the grass ; 


How the feasting fumes. 



FLOWERS. 4*7 


Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of 


Drooping grace unfurls 


men! 


Still Hyacinthus' curls. 


The butterflies come aping 


And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish 


Those fine thieves of ours, 


rill; 


And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled 


Thy red lip, Adonis, 


flowers with flowers. 


Still is wet with morning ; 




And the step that bled for thee the rosy 


See those tops, how beauteous ! 


brier adorning. 


What fair service duteous 




Kound some idol waits, as on their lord the 


! true things are fables. 


Fine. 


Fit for sagest tables, 


Elfin court 'twould seem. 


And the flowers are true things — yet no fa- 


And taught, perchance, that dream 


bles they ; 


Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon 


Fables were not more 


nights divine. 


Bright, nor loved of yore — 


To expound such wonder 


Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every 


Human speech avails not , 


old pathway ; 


Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a 


Grossest hand can test us — 


glory exhales not. 


Fools may prize us never — 




Yet we rise, and rise, and rise — ^marvels sweet 


Think of all these treasures. 


for ever. 


Matchless works and pleasures. 




Every one a marvel, more than thought can 


Who shall say that flowers 


say; 


Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 


Then think in what bright showers 


Who its love, without us, can fancy — or sweei 


We thicken fields and bowers. 


floor? 


And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 


Who shall even dare 


wanton May ; 


To say we sprang not there — 


Think of the mossy forests 


And came not down, that Love might bring 


By the bee-bii-ds haunted, 


one piece of heaven the more ? 


And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying 


! pray believe that angels 


as enchanted. 


From those blue dominions 




Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt 


Trees themselves are ours ; 


their golden pinions. 


Fruits are born of flowers ; 


Leigh Httnt. 


Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in 
the Spring ; 




* 


The lusty bee knows well 




The news, and comes pell-mell. 


yL-^ FLOWERS. 


And dances in the gloomy thicks with dark- 


some antheming ; 


Spake full well, in language quaint and olden. 


Beneath the very burden 


One who dwelleth by the castled Ehine, 


Of planet-pressing ocean. 


When he called the flowers, so blue and 


We wash our smiling cheeks in peace — a 


golden, 


thought for meek devotion. 


Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 


Tears of Phoebus — ^missings 


Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 


Of Cytherea's kissings. 


As astrologers and seers of eld ; 


Have in us been found, and wise men find 


Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 


them still ; j^^^.^ ^he burning stars which they beheld. 



48 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of Ms love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation. 
Writ all over this great world of ours — 

Making evident our own creation. 
In these stars of earth, these golden flow- 



And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being 
"Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining. 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues. 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues. 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than 
seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers 
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing — 
Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears overflowing. 
Stand, like Kuth, amid the golden corn. 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field. 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys. 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone. 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 



In the cottage of the rudest peasant ; 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling tow- 
ers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like 
wings. 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection, 
We behold their tender buds expand — 

Emblems of our own great resurrection. 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 
Heney Wadswokth Longfellow 



HYMN TO THE FLOWEPwS. 

Dat-staes! that ope your eyes with morn 
to twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matm worshippers ! who bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that; with storied beauty- 

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate. 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that 
swingeth 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and 
column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned ; 



NATURE AND THE POETS. 



To that cathedral, boundless as onr wonder, 
"Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
supply — 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
thunder, 

Its dome the sky. 

There — as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon 
the sod. 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living 
preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendor 
" Weep without woe, and blush without a 
crime," 
may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 
Your lore sublime ! 

" Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory. 
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like 
ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! " 

In the sweet-scented pictures. Heavenly Art- 
ist! 
With which thou paintest Nature's wide- 
spread hall. 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to aU. 

Not useless are ye, Flowers ! though made 
for pleasure : 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and 
night. 
From every source your sanction bids me 
treasure 

Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could furnish 
scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
Yet fount of hope. 



Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection I 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in 
earth. 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remain- 
ing? 
Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find, in fiowers of thy ordain- 

ingj 

Priests, sermons, shrines ! 

HoEACE Smith. 



NATTJEE AND THE POETS. 

I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 

The air was cooling, and so very still, 

That the sweet buds, which with a modest 

pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 
Their scanty-leaved and finely-tapering stems, 
Had not yet lost their starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks 

new-shorn, 
And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly 

they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there 

crept 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves. 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
There was wide wandering, for the greediest 

eye 
To peer about upon variety — 
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim — 
To picture out the quaint and curious bend- 
ing 
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending — 
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh them- 
selves. 
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 
As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
Had played upon my heels: I was light- 
hearted. 
And many pleasures to my vision started ; 



50 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



So I straightway began to pluck a posy, 
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy : 
A bush of May-flowers with the bees about 

them; 
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without 

them! 
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them. 
And let long grass grow round the roots, to 

keep them 
Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert-hedge with wild brier overtwined, 
And clumps of woodbine, taking the soft 

wind 
Upon their summer thrones ; there too should 

be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of light green brethren 

shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots, 
Eound which is heard a spring-head of clear 

waters. 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters. 
The spreading blue-bells : it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and, scattered thought- 
lessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds, 
Ye ardent marigolds ! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids. 
For great Apollo bids 
That in these days your praises should be 

sung 
On many hai-ps, which he has lately strung ; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses. 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
So, haply, when I rove in some far vale. 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight — 
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things. 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 
LiAger awhile upon some bending planks 
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, 
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 
They will be found softer than ring-doves' 
cooings. 



How silent comes the water round that bend! 
Not the minutest whisper does it send 
To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass 
Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 
"Why you might read two sonnets, ere they 

reach 
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 
A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 
Where swarms of minnows show their little 

heads. 
Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams. 
To taste the luxury of sunny beams 
Tempered with coolness. How they ever 

wrestle 
With their own sweet delight, and ever 

nestle 
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand ! 
If you but scantily hold out the hand. 
That very instant not one will remain ; 
But turn your eye, and they are there again. 

The ripples seem right glad to reach those 

cresses. 
And cool themselves among the emerald 

tresses ; 
The while they cool themselves, they fresh- 
ness give. 
And moisture, that the bowery green may live : 
So keeping up an interchange of favors. 
Like good men in the truth of their beha- 
viors. 
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 
From low-hung branches; little space they 

stop. 
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; 
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 
Or perhaps, to show their black and golden 

wings. 
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 
That nought less sweet might call my thoughts 

away, 
Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 
Fanning away the dandelion's down ; 
Than the light music of her nimble toes 
Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 
How she would start and blush, thus to be 

caught 
Playing in all her innocence of thought ! 



NATURE AXD THE POETS, 



O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, 
"Watch her half-smiling lips and downward 

look ; 
let me for one moment touch her wrist ; 
Let me one moment to her breathing list ; 
And as she leaves me, may she often turn 
Her fair eyes looking through her locks au- 
burn. 

"What next ? a tuft of evening primroses, • 
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
O'er which it well might take a pleasant 

sleep, 
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 
Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quit- 

tmg; 
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 
Coming into the blue with all her light. 

O Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight 
Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 
Spangier of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 
Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling 

streams ; 
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams ; 
Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 
That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 
For what has made the sage or poet write, 
But the fair paradise of N'ature's light ? 
Li the calm grandeur of a sober line, 
"We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 
And when a tale is beautifully staid. 
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade ; 
When it is moving on luxurious wings, 
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings ; 
Fair dewy roses brush against om* faces. 
And flowering laurels spring from diamond 

vases ; 
O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet- 
brier. 
And bloomy grapes laughing from green 

attire ; 
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bub- 
bles 
Charms us at once away from all our trou- 
bles. 



So that we feel uplifted from the world. 
Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and 
curled. 

So felt he who first told how Psyche went 

On the smooth wind to realms of wonder- 
ment ; 

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full 
lips 

First touch'd; what amorous and fondling 
nips 

They gave each other's cheeks — with all 
their sighs. 

And how they kist each other's tremulous 
eyes; 

The silver lamp — ^the ravishment — ^the won- 
der — 

The darkness — ^loneliness — the feai'ful thun- 
der; 

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up 
flown. 

To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 

So did he feel, who pulled the boughs aside. 
That we might look into a forest wide, 
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 
Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; 
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and 

sweet. 
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 
Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled 
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
Poor ITymph, — poor Pan, — how did he weep 

to flnd 
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 
Along the reedy stream ! a half-heard strain. 
Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 

What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
N'arcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
In some delicious ramble he had found 
A little space, with boughs all woven round; 
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool 
The blue sky here and there serenely peep- 
ing, 
Through tendi-il wreaths fantastically creep- 
ing. 
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of 
pride. 



62 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clear- 
ness, 

To woo its own sad image into nearness. 

Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ; 

But still would seem to droop, to pine, to 
love. 

Sc» while the poet stood in this sweet spot, 

Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ; 

Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 

Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 

Where had he been, from whose warm 
head outflew 
That sweetest of all songs, that ever knew 
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness. 
Coming ever to bless 

The wanderer by moonlight — to him bring- 
ing 
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly 

singing 
From out the middle air, from flowery nests. 
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
Full in the speculation of the stars ? 
Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars ; 
Into some wondrous region he had gone, 
To search for thee, divine Endymion ! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 
Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there 

blew 
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 
And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and 

slow, 
A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswell- 

The incense went to her own starry dwell- 
ing. 

But though her face was clear as infants' 
eyes. 

Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 

The poet wept at her so piteous fate. 

Wept that such beauty should be desolate. 

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he 
won. 

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely 
queen 
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have 
seen! 



As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 
So every tale does this sweet tale of thine. 
for three words of honey, that I might 
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night ! 

Where distant ships do seem to show their 
keels, 
Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels. 
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes. 
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 
The evening weather was so bright, and clear. 
That men of health were of unusual cheer. 
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, 
Or young Apollo on the pedestal ; 
And lovely women were as fair and warm, 
As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 

The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 

And crept through half-closed lattices to cure 

The languid sick : it cool'd their fever'd sleep. 

And soothed them into slumbers full and 
deep. 

Soon they awoke clear-eyed ; nor burn'd 
with thirsting, 

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples burst- 
ing; 

And springing up, they met the wondering 
sight 

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with de- 
light. 

Who feel their arms and breasts, and kiss, 
and stare, 

And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 

Young men and maidens at each other gazed. 

With hands held back, and motionless, 
amazed 

To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; 

And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet sur- 
prise. 

Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. 

Therefore no lover did of anguish die ; 

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken. 

Made silken ties that never may be broken. 

Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses 
That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's 

kisses : 
Was there a poet born ? — But now no more — 
My wandering spirit must no farther soar. 

John Keats. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



53 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

NiGHTmGALE, that on yon bloomy spray 
Warblest at eve, wlien all the woods are 

still, 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost 
fiU, 
While the jolly hours lead on propitious 

May. 
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, 
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's 

biU, 
Portend success in love. O if Jove's will 
Have linked that amorous power to thy 
soft lay, 
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove 

nigh; 
As thou from year to year hast sung too 
late 
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his 

mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
John Miltok. 



ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

As it fell upon a day, 

In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 

Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 

Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 

Every thing did banish moan, 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn. 

Lean 'd her breast up-till a thorn ; 

And there sung the dolefall'st ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ; 

Teru, teru, by-and-by ; 

That, to hear her so complain. 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs, so lively shown, 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah! (thought I) thou mourn 'st in vain ; 

None takes pity on thy pain ; 



Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 

Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead ; 

All thy friends are lapp 'd in lead : 

All thy fellow-birds do sing. 

Careless of thy sorrowing ! 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smil 'd, 

Thou and I were both beguil 'd. 

Every one that flatters thee 

Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy, like the wind ; 

Faithful friends are hard to find. 

Every man will be thy friend 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ; 

But, if stores of crowns be scant. 

No man will supply thy want. 

If that one be prodigal, 

Bountiful they will him call ; 

And, with such-like flattering, 

"Pity but he were a king." 

If he be addict to vice. 

Quickly him they will entice ; 

But if Fortune once do frown, 

Then farewell his great renown : 

They that fawn 'd on him before, 

Use his company no more. 

He that is thy friend indeed. 

He will help thee in thy need ; 

If thou sorrow, he will weep. 

If thou wake, he cannot sleep. 

Thus, of every grief in heart. 

He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know 

Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

ElOHAED BaKNFIELD. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Deae chorister, who from those shadows 

sends — 
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her 

light- 
Such sad lamenting strains, that night at- 
tends, 
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight ; 
If one whose grief even reach of thought 

transcends. 
Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight. 
May thee importune who like case pretends, 



54 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And seems to joy iu woe, in woe's despite ; 
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, 
And long, long sing!) for what thou thus 

complains, 
Since Winter 's gone, and sun in dappled sky 
Enamor'd smiles on woods and flow'ry 

plains ? 

The bird, as if my questions did her move. 

With trembling wings sighed forth, "I love, 

I love." 

William Deummond. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk ; 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 

But being too happy in thy happiness. 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of Summer in fuU-throated ease. 

Oh for a draught of vintage 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country green. 
Dance, and Provengal song, and sun-burned 
mirth ! 
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained mouth — 
That I might drink, and leave the world 
unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim. 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never 
known — 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret ; 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan — 
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray 
hairs — 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, 
and dies — 



Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, 
And leaden-eyed despairs — 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
eyes, 

Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee ! 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of poesy, 
Though the duU brain perplexes and re- 
tards ; 
Already with thee tender is the night, 

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, 
Clustered around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

I can not see what flowers are at my feet. 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 
boughs ; 
But, in embalmed darkness guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree 
wild: 
White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's oldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
The murmurous haunt of bees on summer 
eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused 
rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die. 

To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad. 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in 
vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 55 


Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 


Dost thou once more essay 


Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick 


Thy flight; and feel come over thee. 


for home. 


Poor fugitive, the feathery change ; 


She stood in tears amid the alien corn : 


Once more ; and once more make resound, 


The same that oft-times hath 


With love and hate, triumph and agony. 


Charmed magic casements opening on the 


Lone Daulis, and the high Oephisian vale ? 


foam 




Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 


Listen, Eugenia — 




How thick the bursts come crowding througlj 


Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell, 


the leaves ! 


To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 


Again — thou hearest ! 


Adieu ! the Fancy can not cheat so well 


Eternal passion ! 


As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 


Eternal pain ! 


Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 


Matthew Arnold 


Past the near meadows, over the still 


_4 


stream, 




Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 




In the next valley-glades : 


THE NIGHTIN"G^LE AND THE DOVE. 


Was it a vision or a waking dream ? 




Fled is that music— do I wake or sleep? 


NiGHTiNGAT,F,! thou surcly art 


John Keats. 


A creature of a "fiery heart" ; 




These notes of thine, — ^they pierce and pierce : 
Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 






Thou sing'st as if the god of wine 


PHILOMELA. 


Had helped thee to a valentine — 




A song in mockery, and despite 


Ha-rk! ah, the Nightingale! 


Of shades, and dews, and silent night. 


The tawny-throated ! 


And steady bliss, and all the loves 


Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 


NTow sleeping in these peaceful groves. 


What triumph ! hark — what pain ! 


I heard a stock-dove sing or say 


wanderer from a Grecian shore, 


His homely tale, this very day ; 


Still — after many years, in distant lands — 


His voice was buried among trees. 


Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 


Yet to be come at by the breeze : 


That wild, unquenshed, deep-sunken, old- 


He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed ; 


world pain — 


And somewhat pensively he wooed : 


Say, will it never heal? 


He sang of love, with quiet blending, 


And can this fragrant lawn. 


Slow to begin, and never ending ; 


With its cool trees, and night, 


Of serious faith, and inward glee ; 


And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 


That was the song, the song for me ! 


And moonshine, and the dew. 


William Woedswobth. 


To thy racked heart and brain 




Afford no balm? 




Dost thou to-night behold, 


THE ]SriGHTING^T,E. 


Here, through the moonlight on this English 




grass, 


NTo cloud, no relict of the sunken day 


The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 


Distinguishes the West ; no long thin slip 


Dost thou again peruse, 


Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 


With hot cheeks and seared eyes. 


Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 


The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's 


You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 


shame? 


But hear no murmuring • it flows silently 



66 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still ; 
A balmy night ! and tliongh the stars be dim, 
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
That gladden the green earth, and we shall 

find 
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song — 
" Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 
A melancholy bird ! Oh, idle thought ! 
In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
But some night- wandering man, whose heart 

was pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
(And so, poor wretch I filled all things with 

himself. 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow) — ^he, and such as he, 
First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
And many a poet echoes the conceit — 
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
When he had better far have stretched his 

limbs 
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
By sun or moonlight ; to the influxes 
Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements. 
Surrendering his whole spirit ; of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in Nature's immortality — 
A venerable thing ! — and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical. 
Who lose the deepening twilights oi the 

Spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, 
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their 

sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My friend, and thou, our sister! we have 

learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'T is the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 



And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood ; 
And the trim walks are broken up ; and grass, 
Thin grass and kingcups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales. And far and neai', 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song, 
With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping sound more sweet than 

aU— 
Stirring the air with such a harmony. 
That should you close your eyes, you might 

almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both 

bright and fall. 
Glistening, while many a glowworm in the 

shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle maid, 
Who dwelk-th in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve, 
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove,) 
Glides through the pathways — she knows all 

their notes. 
That gentle maid ! and oft, a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon. 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath 

watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the 

breeze, 
And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, O warbler ! till to-morrow eve ; 
And you, my friends I farewell, a short fare- 
weU! 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



51 



We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain 

again ! 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
"Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
How he would place his hand beside his ear. 
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him ligature's playmate. He knows 

well 
The evening-star ; and once when he awoke 
In most distressful mood, (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 

dream,) 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
And he beheld the moon ; and, hushed at once. 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
While his fair eyes, that swam with undrop- 

ped tears, 
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shaU grow 

up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the 

night 

He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell, 

Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! 

farewell. 

SAiniEL Taylob Coleeidge. 



THE mGHTINGALE. 

Peize thou the nightingale, 
Who soothes thee with his tale. 
And wakes the woods around ; 
A singing feather he — a winged and wander- 
ing sound ; 

Whose tender caroling 
Sets all ears listening 
Unto that living lyre, 
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstacies in- 
spire ; 

Whose shriU, capricious song 
Breathes like a flute along. 
With many a careless tone — 
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one 
tongue alone. 



O charming creature rare ! 
Can aught with thee compare ? 
Thou art all song — ^thy breast 



ThriUs for one month o' 
all the rest. 



th' year — is tranquil 



Thee wondrous we may call — 
Most wondrous this of all, 
That such a tiny throat 
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so 
loud a note. 

Maria Tesselschade Yisscheb. (Dutch) 
Translation of Jokn Bo"vrEiNG-. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

The rose looks out in the valley. 

And thither will I go ! 
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 

Sings his song of woe. 

The virgin is on the river side, 

OuUing the lemons pale : 
Thither — ^yes ! thither wiU I go, 

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
Sings his song of woe. 

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, 

'Tis for her lover all : 
Thither — yes ! thither will I go, 

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale, 
Sings his song of woe. 

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, 

She has placed the lemons pale : 
Thither — ^yes ! thither will I go. 

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
Sings his song of woe. 

Gil YiCEi^^:, (Portuguese) 
Translation of Joms Boweing. 



THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE. 

I HAVE seen a nightingale 
On a sprig of thyme bewail, 
SeeiQg the dear nest, which wafe 
Hers alone, borne ofij alas ! 
By a laborer ; I heard. 
For this outrage, the poor bird 



58 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Say a thousand mournful things 
To the wind, which, on its wings, 
From her to the guardian of the sky, 
Bore her melancholy cry — 
Bore her tender tears. She spake 
As if her fond heart would break : 
One while, in a sad, sweet note, 
Gurgled from her straining throat, 
She enforced her piteous tale, 
Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail ; 
One while, with the shrill dispute 
Quite outwearied, she was mute ; 
Then afresh, for her dear brood, 
Her harmonious shrieks renewed, 
li^ow she winged it round and round ; 
Kow she skimmed along the ground ; 
IsTow, from bough to bough, in haste, 
The delighted robber chased. 
And, alighting in his path. 
Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath, 
" Give me back, fierce rustic rude — 
Give me back my pretty brood ! " 
And I saw the rustic still 
Answered, " That, I never will ! " 

EsTEVAN Manttel de Villegas. (Spanish) 
Translation of Thomas Eoscoe. 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEPAETUEE. 

Sweet poet of the woods — a long adieu ! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 
Ah ! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew. 
And pour thy music on " the night's dull 
ear." 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights 
await. 
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her 
mate, 
And still protect the song she loves so weU. 
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shaU 
glide 
Through the long brake that shades thy 
mossy nest ; 
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shaU 
hide 
The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
For still thy voice shall soft affections move, 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 

Chaelotte Smith. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 

Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of 

day. 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 
Thy solitary way ! 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 

wrong. 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shaU end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 

rest. 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shaU 
bend. 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my 

heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. 

And shall not soon depart : 

He who, from zone to zone. 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 

flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone. 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cxtllen Betant. 



SUMMER. ■ 59 


THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. 


JULY. 


Heee I come creeping, creeping every where ; 


Loud is the Summer's busy song, 


By the dusty roadside, 


The smallest breeze can find a tongue, 


On the sunny hill-side, 


While insects of each tiny size 


Close by the noisy brook, 


Grow teasing with their melodies, 


In every shady nook. 


TiU noon burns with its blistering breath 


I come creeping, creeping every where. " 


Around, and day lies stiU as death. 


Here I come creeping, smiling every where ; 


The busy noise of man and brute 


All round the open door. 


Is on a sudden lost and mute ; 


Where sit the aged poor ; 


Even the brook that leaps along. 


Here where the children play, 


Seems weary of its bubbling song. 


In the bright and merry May, 


And, so soft its waters creep, 


I come creeping, creeping every where. 


Tu'ed silence sinks in sounder sleep ; 


Here I come creeping, creeping every where ; 


The cricket on its bank is dumb ; 


In the noisy city street 


The very flies forget to hum ; 


My pleasant face you'U meet, 


And, save the wagon rocking round. 


Cheering the sick at heart 


The landscape sleeps without a sound. 


Toiling his busy part — 


The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough 


Silently creeping, creeping every where. 


Hath not a leaf that danceth now ; 


Here I come creeping, creeping every where ; 


The taUer grass upon the hill. 


You cannot see me coming. 


And spider's thi-eads, are standing stiU ; 


Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 


The feathers, dropped from moorhen's wing, 


For in the starry night, 


Which to the water's surface cling. 


And the glad morning light. 


Are steadfast, and as heavy seem 


I come quietly creeping every where. 


As stones beneath them in the stream ; 


Here I come creeping, creeping every where ; 


Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs 


More welcome than the flowers 


Um-uffled keep their seedy crowns ; 


In Summer's pleasant hours ; 


And in the over-heated air 


The gentle cow is glad. 


Not one light thing is floating there. 


And the merry bird not sad, 


Save that to the earnest eye 


To see me creeping, creeping every where. 


The restless heat seems twittering by. 


Here I come creeping, creeping every where ; 


Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, 


When you 're numbered with the dead 


And flowers e'en within the shade ; 


In your still and narrow bed, 


Until the sun slopes in the west, 


In the happy Spring I '11 come 


Tiike weary traveller, glad to rest 


And deck your silent home — 


On pillowed clouds of many hues. 


Creeping, silently creeping every where. 


Then Nature's voice its joy renews, 


Here I come creeping, creeping every where ; 


And checkered field and grassy plain 


My humble song of praise 


Hum with their summer songs again, 


Most joyfully I raise 


A requiem to the day's decline. 


To Him at whose command 


Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine 


I beautify the land. 


As welcome to day's feeble powers 


Creeping, silently creeping every where. 


As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 


Saeah Eobekts. 


John CiiAKK. 



60 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



SONG. 

Under the greenwood tree 
TVlio loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 
Here shall he see 
ITo enemy 
But Winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 
Here shall he see 
"No enemy 
But Winter and rough weather. 

Shakespeaee. 



THE GEEENWOOD. 

Oh! when 'tis summer weather, 
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound, 
The waters clear is humming round, 
And the cuckoo sings unseen. 
And the leaves are waving green — 

Oh ! then 't is sweet, 

In some retreat. 
To hear the murmuring dove. 
With those whom on earth alone we love. 
And to wind through the greenwood together. 

But when 'tis winter weather, 

And crosses grieve. 

And friends deceive. 

And rain and sleet 

The lattice beat, — 

Oh! then 'tis sweet 

To sit and sing 
Of the friends with whom, in the days of 

Spring, 
We roamed through the greenwood together. 
William Lisle Bowles. 



COME TO THESE SCEKES OF PEACE. 

Come to these scenes of peace. 
Where, to rivers murmuring, 
The sweet birds all the Summer sing, 
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease ! 
Stranger, does thy heart deplore 
Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? 
Does thy wounded spirit prove 
Pangs of hopeless, severed love ? 
Thee, the stream that gushes clear — 
Thee, the birds that carol near 
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 
And dream of their wild lullaby ; 
Come to bless these scenes of peace. 
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 
"William Lisle Bowles. 



THE GAKDEN. 

How vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays : 
And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from some single herb, or tree. 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers, and trees, do close, 
To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men. 
Your sacred plants, if here below, 
Only among the plants will grow 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name 

Little, alas ! they know or heed. 

How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, 

No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passion's heat. 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 



THE GARDEN. 



61 



The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race. 
Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life in this I lead ! 
Eipe apples drop about my head; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

"Withdraws into its happiness. 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that 's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight, 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was the happy garden state, 
While man there walked without a mate : 
After a place so pure and sweet, 
What other help could yet be meet ! 
But 't was beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one, 
To live in paradise alone. 

How weU the skilfal gard'ner drew 
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new ! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hom*s 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? 

Andrew Maevell. 



THE GAEDEN. 

Happy art thou, whom God does bless, 
With the full choice of thine own happiness ; 

And happier yet, because thou 'rt blest 

With prudence, how to choose the best : 
In books and gardens thou hast placed aright 

(Things, which thou well dost understand ; 
And both dost make with thy laborious hand) 

Thy noble, innocent delight ; 
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again 
dost meet 

Both pleasures more refined and sweet ; 

The fairest garden in her looks. 

And in her mind the wisest books. 
Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid 
joys, 

For empty shows and senseless noise ; 

And aU which rank ambition breeds. 
Which seems such beauteous flowers, and are 
such poisonous weeds ? 

When God did man to his own likeness make. 

As much as clay, though of the purest kind. 
By the great potter's art refined. 
Could the divine impression take. 
He thought it fit to place him, where 
A kind of Heaven too did appear, 

As far as Earth could such a likeness bear : 
That man no happiness might want. 

Which Earth to her first master could aff'ord, 
He did a garden for him plant 

By the quick hand of his omnipotent word. 

As the chief help and joy of human life. 

He gave him the first gift ; first, even before 
a wife. 

For God, the universal architect 

'T had been as easy to erect 
A Louvi'e or Escurial, or a tower 
That might with Heaven communication hold. 
As Babel vainly thought to do of old : 

He wanted not the skill or power ; 

In the world's fabric those were shown, 
'And the materials were all his own. 
But weU he knew, what place would best 

agree 
With innocence and with felicity ; 
And we elsewhere stiU seek for them in vain; 
If any part of either yet remain. 



62 



POEMS OF NATURE, 



If any part of either we expect, 
This may our judgment in the search direct ; 
God the first garden made, and the first city 
Cain. 

O blessed shades ! gentle cool retreat 

From all th' immoderate heat. 
In -which the frantic world does burn and 

sweat ! 
This does the Lion-star, ambition's rage ; 
This avarice, the Dog-star's thirst, assuage ; 
Every where else their fatal power we see ; 
They make and rule man's wretched destiny : 

They neither set, nor disappear, 

But tyrannize o'er all the year ; 
"Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence 
here. 

The birds that dance from bough to bough. 

And sing above in every tree, 

Are not from fears and cares more free 
Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below, 

And should by right be singers too. 
"What prince's choir of music can excel 

That, which within this shade does dweU ? 

To which we nothing pay or give ; 
They, like all other poets, live 
"Without reward, or thanks for their obliging 
pains : 
'T is well if they become not prey : 
The whistling winds add their less artful 

strains. 
And a grave bass the murmuring fountains 

play; 
ligature does all this harmony bestow, 
But to our plants, art's music too, 
The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe ; 
The lute itself, which once was green and 
mute, 
When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute, 
The trees danced round, and understood 
By, sympathy the voice of wood. 

These are the spells, that to kind sleep invite. 
And nothing does within resistance make, 
"Which yet we moderately take ; 
"Who would not choose to be awake, 
"While he 's encompast round with such de- 
light, 
To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and 
sight ! 



"When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep 
A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep, 
The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him 
spread, 

As the most soft and sweetest bed ; 
Not her own lap would more have charmed 

his head. 
"Who, that has reason and his smell, 
"Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, 

Rather than all his spirits choke, 
"With exhalations of dirt and smoke, 

And all th' uncleanness which does drown, 
In pestilential clouds, a populous town ? 
The earth itself breathes better perfumes 

here. 
Than all the female men, or women, there 
Not without cause, about them bear. 

"When Epicurus to the world had taught. 

That pleasure was the chiefest good, 
(And was, perhaps, i' th' right, if rightly un- 
derstood) 

His life he to his doctrine brought. 
And in a garden's shade that sovereign plea- 
sure sought : 
"Whoever a true epicure would be. 
May there find cheap and virtuous luxury. 
Yitellius's table, which did hold 
As many creatures as the ark of old ; 
That fiscal table, to which every day 
All countries did a constant tribute pay. 
Could nothing more delicious afford 

Than Nature's liberality. 
Helped with a little art and industry, 
Allows the meanest gardener's board. 
The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose. 
For which the grape or melon she would 

lose; 
Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air 
Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare. 

Yet still the fruits of earth we see 
Placed the third story high in all her luxury. 

But with no sense the garden does comply, 
'^one courts, or flatters, as it does, the eye. 
"When the great Hebrew king did almost 

strain 
The wondrous treasures of his wealth, and 

brain, 
His royal southern guest to entertain ; 



THE GARDEN. 



Thoiigli she on silver floors did tread, 
With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread, 
To hide the metal's poverty ; 
Though she look'd up to roofs of gold, 
And nought around her could behold 
But silk, and rich embroidery, 
And Babylonish tapestry, 
And wealthy Hiram's princely dye ; 
Though Ophir's starry stones met every 

where her eye ; 
Though she herself and her gay host were 

drest 
With all the shining glories of the East ; 
When lavish Art her costly work had done. 

The honor and the prize of bravery 
Was by the garden from the palace won 
And every rose and lily there did stand 

Better attired by ISTature's hand. 
The case thus judged against the king we see. 
By one, that would not be so rich, though 
wiser far than he. 

Nor does this happy place only dispense 
Such various pleasures to the sense ; 
Here health itself does live, 

That salt of life which does to all a relish give, 

Its standing pleasure and intrinsic wealth, 

The body's virtue and the soul's good-for- 
tune, health. 

The tree of life, when it in Eden stood. 

Did its immortal head to Heaven rear ; 

It lasted a tall cedar, till the flood ; 

Now a small thorny shrub it does appear ; 
Nor wiU it thrive too every where : 
It always here is freshest seen, 
'Tis only here an evergreen. 
If, through the strong and beauteous fence 
Of temperance and innocence. 

And wholesome labors, and a quiet mind. 
Any diseases passage find. 
They must not think here to assail 

A land unarmed or without a guard ; 

They must fight for it, and dispute it hard, 
Before they can prevail : 
Scarce any plant is growing here. 

Which against death some weapon does not- 
bear. 
Let cities boast that they provide 
For life the ornaments of pride ; 
But 'tis the country and the field, 
That furnish it with staff* and shield. 



Where does the wisdom and the power divine 
In a more bright and sweet reflection shine ? 
Where do we finer strokes and colors see 
Of the Creator's real poetry, 

Than when we with attention look 
Upon the third day's volume of the book ? 
If we could open and intend our eye. 

We all, like Moses, should espy 
Ev'n in a bush the radiant Deity. 
But we despise these, his inferior ways, 
(Though no less full of miracle and praise.) 

Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze ; 
The stars of Earth no wonder in us raise ; 

Though these perhaps do, more than they, 
The life of mankind sway. 
Although no part of mighty Nature be 
More stored with beauty, power and mystery ; 
Yet, to encourage human industry, 
God has so ordered, that no other part 
Such space and such dominion leaves for Art. 

We nowhere Art do so triumphant see, 

As when it grafts or buds the tree. 
In other things we count it to excel. 
If it a docile scholar can appear 
To Nature, and but imitate her well ; 
It over-rules and is her master, here. 
It imitates her Maker's power divine, 
And changes her sometimes, and sometimes 

does refine. 
It does, like grace, the faUen tree restore 
To its blest state of Paradise before. 
Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 
O'er all the vegetable world command ? 
And the wild giants of the wood receive 

What law he 's pleased to give ? 
He bids th' ill-natm'ed crab produce 
The gentle apple's winy juice. 

The golden fruit that worthy is 

Of Galatea's purple kiss. 

He does the savage hawthorn teach 

To bear the medlar and the pear ; 

He bids the rustic plum to rear 

A noble trunk, and be a peach. 

Ev'n Daphne's coyness he does mock. 

And weds the cherry to her stock, 

Though she refused Apollo's suit ; 

Ev'n she, that chaste and virgin tree. 

Now wonders at herself, to see 
That she's a mother made, and blushes in her 
fruit 



64 



POEMS OF NATURE 



Metliinks I see great Dioclesian walk 
In the Salonian garden's noble shade, ^ 

Which by his own imperial hands was made. 
I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk 
With the ambassadors, who come in vain 

T' entice him to a throne again. 
" If I, my friends," (said he,) " should to you 

show 
All the delights which in these gardens grow, 
'Tis likelier, much, that you should with me 

stay, 
Than 'tis that you should carry me away ; 
And trust me not, my friends, if every day, 

I walk not here with more delight 

Than ever, after the most happy sight. 

In triumph to the Capitol I rode 

To thank the gods, and to be thought myself 

almost a god." 

Abkaham Cowley. 



INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 

Beneath this stony roof reclined, 
I soothe to peace my pensive mind; 
And while, to shade my lowly cave. 
Embowering elms their umbrage wave ; 
And while the maple dish is mine — 
The beechen cup, unstained with wine — 
I scorn the gay licentious crowd. 
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 

Within my limits, lone and still. 
The black-bird pipes in artless trill ; 
Fast by my couch, congenial guest, 
The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 
From busy scenes, and brighter skies, 
To lurk with innocence, she flies. 
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell. 
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 

At morn I take my customed round. 
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound. 
And every opening primrose count, 
That trimly paints my blooming mount; 
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude. 
That grace my gloomy solitude, 
I teach in winding wreaths to stray 
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 



At eve, within yon studious nook, 

I ope my brass-embossed book. 

Portrayed with many a holy deed 

Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed. 

Then, as my taper waxes dim. 

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn, 

And at the close, the gleams behold 

Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold. 

While such pure joys my bliss create. 
Who but would smile at guilty state ? 
Who but would wish his holy lot 
In calm oblivion's humble grot? 
Who but would cast his pomp away, 
To take my staff, and amice gray ; 
And to the world's tumultuous stage 
Prefer the blameless hermitage ? 

Thomas Waeton. 



THE RETIREMENT. 

Faeewell, thou busy world, and may 
We never meet again ; 
Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray. 
And do more good in one short day. 
Than he who his whole age out-wears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres. 
Where nought but vanity and vice appears. 

Good God! how sweet are all things here! 
How beautiful the fields appear ! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what unanimity ! 
How innocent from the lewd fashion, 
Is all our business, all our recreation ! 

Oh, how happy here 's our leisure ! 
Oh, how innocent our pleasure ! 
ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 
ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 
How I love, at liberty. 
By turns to come and visit ye ! 

Dear solitude, the soul's best friend. 
That man acquainted with himself dost make, 
I And all his Maker's wonders to intend. 



THE MID-DAY DREAM. 



65 



With thee I here converse at will, 
And would be glad to do so still, 
For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul 
awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 

Is it, alone 
To read, and meditate, and write, 

By none offended, and offending none! 
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own 
ease; 
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to 
displease. 

mj beloved nymph, fair Dove, 
Princess of rivers, how I love 

Upon thy flowery banks to lie. 
And view thy silver stream, 
When gilded by a Summer's beam ! 
And in it all thy wanton fry 
Playing at liberty. 
And, with my angle, upon them, 
The all of treachery 

1 ever learned industriously to try ! 

Such streams Pome's yellow Tiber cannot 

show, 
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po ; 
The Maese, the Danube, and the Ehine, 
Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine ; 
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 
With thine, much purer, to compare ; 
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
Are both too mean. 

Beloved Dove, with thee 

To vie priority ; 
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit. 
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 



Your gloomy entrails make. 

Have I taken, do I take ! 
How oft, when grief has made me fly. 
To hide me from society 
E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 

In your recesses' friendly shade. 

All my sorrows open laid. 
And my most secret woes intrusted to your 

privacy ! 

Lord ! would men let me alone. 
What an over-happy one 

Should I think myself to he- 
Might I in this desert place, 
(Which most men in discourse disgrace,) 

Live but undisturbed and free ! 
Here, in this despised recess, 

Would I, maugre Winter's cold, 
And the Summer's worst excess. 
Try to live out to sixty fuU years old ; 
And, all the while, 

Without an envious eye 
On any thriving under Fortune's smile, 
Contented live, and then contented die. 

Chaeles Cotton. 



O my beloved rocks, that rise 

To awe the earth and brave the skies ! 

From some aspiring mountain's crown 

How dearly do I love, 
Giddy with pleasure, to look down ; 
And, from the vales, to view the noble heights 

above ; 
my beloved caves ! from dog-star's heat, 
And all anxieties, my safe retreat; 
What safety, privacy, what true delight. 
In the artificial night 
5 



REVE DU MIDL 

When o'er the mountain steeps 
The hazy noon-tide creeps. 
And the shrill cricket sleeps 
Under the grass ; 
When soft the shadows lie, 
And clouds sail o'er the sky, 
And the idle winds go by. 
With the heavy scent of blossoms as they 
pass — 



Then when the silent stream 
Lapses as in a dream, 
And the water-lilies gleam 
Up to the sun ; 

When the hot and burdened day 
Rests on its downward way, 
When the moth forgets to play 
And the plodding ant may dream her work 
is done — 



66 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Then, from the noise of war 
And the din of earth afar, 
Like some forgotten star 
Dropt from the sky — 
The somids of love and fear, 
All voices sad and clear, 
Banished to silence drear — 
The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. 

Some melancholy gale 
Breathes its mysterious tale, 
Till the rose's lips grow pale 
With her sighs ; 
And o'er my thoughts are cast 
Tints of the vanished past, 
Glories that faded fast. 
Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. 

As poised on vibrant wings, 
Where its sweet treasure swings, 
The honey-lover clings 
To the red flowers — 
So, lost in vivid light. 
So, rapt from day and night, 
I linger in delight, 
Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours. 

EoBE Teeey. 



HYMN TO PAK 

O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels 

darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours dost sit 

and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds 
In desolate places, where dank moisture 

breeds 
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth. 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
By thy love's milky brow ! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
Hear us, great Pan ! 



thou,. for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the 

side 
Of thine enmossed realms ! O thou, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
Their ripened fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied 

com; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
To sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness ; pent-up butterflies 
Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh-budding 

year 
All its completions — be quickly near, 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
forester divine ! 

Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
And gather up all fancifuHest shells 
For thee to tumble into ISTaiads' cells, 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peep- 
ing; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and flr-cones brown ! 
By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
Hear us, satyr king ! 

Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating ! Winder of the horn, 
When snouted wild-boars, routing tender corn, 
Anger our huntsmen! Breather round our 

farms, 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms ! 
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds. 
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors ! 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see. 
Great son of Dryope, 



1 



FAN AND THE NYMPHS. 



67 



The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 



Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings — such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
Then leave the naked brain ; be still the 

leaven 
That, spreading in this duU and clodded earth, 
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth ; 
Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — ^but no more : we humbly 

screen 
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bend- 

And, giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 

Conjure thee to receive our humble psean. 

Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 

John KJEATS. 



TO PAK 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers. 
All ye virtues and ye powers 
That inhabit in the lakes, 
In the pleasant springs or brakes, 

Move your feet 
To our sound, 

WhUst we greet 
All this ground, 
With his honor and his name 
That defends our flocks from blame. 



He is great, and he is just. 
He is ever good, and must 
Thus be honored. Daffodillies, 
Koses, pinks, and loved lilies, 
Let us fling, 

Whilst we sing. 
Ever holy. 
Ever holy. 
Ever honored, ever young ! 
Thus great Pan is ever sung. 

Beattmont and Fletchee. 



SONG OF WOOD-KYMPHS. 

Come here, come here, and dwell 

In forest deep ! 

Come here, come here, and tell 

Why thou dost weep ! 

Is it for love (sweet pain !) 

That thus thou dar'st complain 

Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, 

Where nought else grieves ? 

Come here, come here, and lie 

By whispering stream ! 

Here no one dares to die 

For love's sweet dream ; 

But health all seek, and joy. 

And shun perverse annoy. 

And race along green paths till close of day, 

And laugh — alway ! 

Or else, through half the year. 

On rushy floor. 

We lie by waters clear. 

While sky-larks pour 

Their songs into the sun ! 

And when bright day is done, 

We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding 

corn. 

And dream — ^tiU morn ! 

Bakky Coenwall. 



THE BIRCH-TKEE. 

RippinsTG through thy branches goes the sun- 
shine. 
Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever ; 
Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned. 
The soul once of some tremulous inland river, 
Quivering to teU her woe, but, ah ! dumb, 
dumb for ever ! 

While all the forest, witched with slumber- 
ous moonshine, 
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, 
Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse sus- 
pended, — 
I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands. 
And track thee wakeful stni amid the wide- 
hung silence. 



68 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Upon tlie brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, 
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, 
Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose 

shadow 
Slopes quivering down the water's dusky 

quiet, 
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would 

some startled Dryad. 

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; 

Thy white bark has their secrets in its keep- 
ing; 

Reuben writes here the happy name of Pa- 
tience, 

And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and 
weeping 

Above her, as she steals the mystery from 
thy keeping. 

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, 

So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences; 

Thy shadow scarce seems shade ; thy patter- 
ing leaflets 

Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my 
senses. 

And Nature gives me all her summer con- 
fidences. 

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow 

tremble. 
Thou sympathizest still ; wild and unquiet, 
I fling me down, thy ripple, like a river. 
Flows valleyward where calmness is, and 

by it 
My heart is floated down into the land of 

quiet. 

James Etjssell Lowell. 



SUMMER WOODS. 

Come ye into the summer woods ; 

There entereth no annoy ; 
All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, 

And the earth is full of joy. 

I cannot tell you half the sights 

Of beauty you may see, 
The bursts of golden sunshine, 

And many a shady tree. 



There, lightly swung, in bowery glades, 

The honey-suckles twine ; 
There blooms the rose-red campion, 

And the dark-blue columbine. 

There grows the four-leaved plant, " true- 
love," 

In some dusk woodland spot ; 
There grows the enchanter's night-shade, 

And the wood forget-me-not. 

And many a merry bird is there, 

Unscared by lawless men ; 
The blue- winged jay, the woodpecker, 

And the golden-crested wren. 

Come down, and ye shall see them all. 

The timid and the bold ; 
For their sweet life of pleasantness. 

It is not to bje told. 

And far within that summer wood, 

Among the leaves so green, 
There flows a little gurgling brook, 

The brightest e'er was seen. 

There come the little gentle birds, 

Without a fear of ill ; 
Down to the murmuring water's edge 

And freely drink their fill ! 

And dash about and splash about, 

The merry little things ; 
And look askance with bright black eyes. 

And flirt their dripping wings. 

I've seen the freakish squirrels drop 

Down fi'om their leafy tree. 
The little squirrels with the old, — 

Great joy it was to me ! 

And down unto the running brook, 

I've seen them nimbly go ; 
And the bright water seemed to speak 

A welcome kind and low. 

The nodding plants they bowed their heads, 

As if in heartsome cheer : 
They spake unto these little things, 
" 'Tis merry living here ! " 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 



69 



Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy ! 

I saw that all was good, 
And how we might glean up delight 

All round us, if we would ! 

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there, 

Beneath the old wood shade, 
And all day long has work to do, 

jN'or is of aught afraid. 

The green shoots grow above their heads, 

And roots so fresh and fine 
Beneath their feet ; nor is there strife 

'Mong them for mine and thine. 

There is enough for every one, 

And they lovingly agree ; 
We might learn a lesson, all of us. 

Beneath the green- wood tree. 

Maby Howitt. 



WILLOW SONG. 

Willow ! in thy breezy moan 

I can hear a deeper tone ; 

Through thy leaves come whispering low 

Faint sweet sounds of long ago — 

Willow, sighing willow ! 

Many a mournful tale of old 
Heart-sick Love to thee hath told, 
Gathering from thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his burning brow — 

Willow, sighing willow ! 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; 
Many a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent — 
Willow, sighing willow ! 

Therefore, wave and murmur on, 
Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
And for tuneful voices fled, 
And for Love, whose heart hath bled, 

Ever, willow, willow ! 

Felicia Hemans. 



THE BELFKY PIGEON. 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air ; 
I love to see him track the street. 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings. 
Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note. 
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel- 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell — 
The dove in the belfry must hear it weU. 
When the tongue swings out to the midnight 

moon. 
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon. 
When the clock strikes clear at morning 

light. 
When the child is waked with "nine at 

night," 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — 
Whatever tale in the beU is heard. 
He broods on his folded feet unstirred, 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest. 
He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
Then drops again, with filmed eyes. 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen. 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
But, unlike me, when day is o'er. 
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ; 
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 

I would that, in such wings of gold, 
I could my weary heart upfold ; 



70 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



I would I could look down unmoved, 
(Unloving as I am unloved,) 
And while the world throngs on beneath, 
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
And never sad with others' sadness, 
And never glad with others' gladness. 
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. 
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 

Natecaniel Pabkeb Willis. 



THE FLY. 

occasioned by a fly drineing out of the 
author's cup. 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly ! 
Drink with me, and drink as I ! 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip and sip it up : 
Make the most of life you may ; 
Life is short and wears away ! 

Both alike, both mine and thine. 
Hasten quick to their decline ! 
Thine's a summer ; mine no more, 
Though repeated to threescore ! 
Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
"Will appear as show as one ! 

YmCENT BOXTENE. 



THE GEASSHOPPER. 

Happy insect, what can be 
In happiness compared to thee ? 
Fed with nourishment divine. 
The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
Nature waits upon thee still, 
And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread , 
Nature self 's thy Ganymede. 
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing. 
Happier than the happiest king ! 
All the fields which thou dost see, 
All the plants belong to thee ; 
All that summer hours produce, 
Fertile made with early juice. 
Man for thee does sow and plow ; 
Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 



Thou dost innocently enjoy ; 

Nor does thy luxury destroy. 

The shepherd gladly heareth thee. 

More harmonious than he. 

Thee country hinds with gladness hear. 

Prophet of the ripened year ! 

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; 

Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

Life is no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect ! happy thou. 

Dost neither age nor winter know ; 

But when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and 

sung 
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, 
(Voluptuous and wise withal. 
Epicurean animal!) 
Satiated with thy summer feast, 
Thou retir'st to endless rest. 

AiTACHEON. (Greek) 
Translation of Abeaham Cowley. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy songster, perched above, 
On the summit of the grove, 
"Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing 
With the freedom of a king ! 
From thy perch survey the fields, 
Where prolific Nature yields 
Nought that, willingly as she, 
Man surrenders not to thee. 
For hostility or hate 
None thy pleasures can create. 
Thee it satisfies to sing 
Sweetly the return of Spring ; 
Herald of the genial hours. 
Harming neither herbs nor flowers. 
Therefore man thy voice attends 
Gladly — ^thou and he are friends ; 
Nor thy never-ceasing strains 
Phoebus or the Muse disdains 
As too simple or too long. 
For themselves inspire the song. 
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, 
Ever singing, sporting, playing. 
What has Nature else to show 
Godlike in its kind as thou ? 

Anaoeeon. (Greek) 
Translation of William Co"wpek. 



SUMMER. 11 




In summer luxury, — he has never done 




With his delights ; for, when tired out with 


A SOLILOQUi^. 


fun. 




He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 


OOOASIOIsrED BY THE OHIEPING OF A 


The poetry of earth is ceasing never. 


GEASSHOPPEE. 


On a lone winter evening, when the frost 




Has wrought a silence, from the stove there 


TT A PPT insect! ever blest 


shriUs 


"Witli a more than mortal rest, 


The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 


E0S7 dews the leaves among, 


And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, 


Humble joys, and gentle song ! 


The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 


Wretched poet ! ever curst 


John Ktcats. 


With a life of lives the worst, 




Sad despondence, restless fears, 




Endless jealousies and tears. 




In the burning summer thou 


THE GRASSHOPPER AKD CRICKET. 


"Warblest on the verdant bough, 




Meditating cheerful plaj. 


Geeen little vaulter in the sunny grass, 


Mindless of the piercing ray ; 


Catching your heart up at the feel of June — 


Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I 


Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon 


Ever weep and ever die. 


When even the bees lag at the summoning 


Proud to gratify thy will, 


brass; 


Eeady ISTature waits thee still ; 


And you, warm little honsekeeper, who class 


Balmy wines to thee she pours, 


With those who think the candles come too 


Weeping through the dewy flowers, 


soon, 


Kich as those by Hebe giv'n 


Loving the fire, and with your tricksome 


To the thirsty sons of heaven. 


tune 


Yet alas, we both agree. 


Mck the glad silent moments as they pass ! 


Miserable thou like me ! 




Each, aliVe, in youth rehearses 


Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 


Gentle strains and tender verses ; 


One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 


Ever wandering far from home, 


Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, 


Mindless of the days to come, 


are strong 


(Such as aged Winter brings 


At your clear hearts ; and both seem given 


Trembling on his icy wings,) 


to earth 


Both alike at last we die ; 


To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 


Thou art starved, and so am I ! 


In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. 


Waltee Hakte. 


Leigh Htint. 


ON THE GRASSHOPPER AKD 


TO THE HUMBLE-BEE 


CEICEIET. 


Fine humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! 




Where thou art is clime for me ; 


The poetry of earth is never dead : 


Let them sail for Porto Rique, 


When all the birds are faint with the hot sun 


Far-off heats through seas to seek. — 


And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 


I wiU follow thee alone. 


From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 


Thou animated torrid zone ! 


mead. 


Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer. 


That is the grasshopper's— he takes the lead 


Let me chase thy waving lines ; 



72 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 


Thou dost mock at fate and care. 


Singing over shrubs and vines. 


Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 


Flower-bells, 


When the fierce north-western blast 


Honeyed cells,— 


Cools sea and land so far and fast, — 


These the tents 


Thou already slumberest deep ; 


Which he frequents. 


Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 




Want and woe, which torture us, 


Insect lover of the sun, 


Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 


Joy of thy dominion ! 


Ealph "Waldo Emeeson. 


Sailor of the atmosphere; 




Swimmer through the waves of air, 




Voyager of light and noon. 


^ 


• 


Epicurean of June ! 




Wait, I prithee, till I come 




Within earshot of thy hum, — 


THE SPICE TEEE. 


All without is martyrdom. 






The spice tree lives in the garden green; 


. When the south wind, in May days, 


Beside it the fountain flows ; 


With a net of shining haze 


And a fair bird sits the boughs between. 


Silvers the horizon wall ; 


And sings his melodious woes. 


And, with softness touching all, 




Tints the human countenance 


Ko greener garden e'er was known 


With a color of romance ; 


Within the bounds of an earthly king ; 


And infusing subtle heats 


ISTo lovelier skies have ever shone 


Turns the sod to violets, — 


Than those that illumine its constant Spring. 


Thou in sunny solitudes, 




Eover of the underwoods. 


That coil-bound stem has branches three ; 


The green silence dost displace 


On each a thousand blossoms grow ; 


With thy mellow breezy bass. 


And, old as aught of time can be. 




The root stands fast in the rocks below. 


Hot Midsuiijmer's petted crone. 




Sweet to me thy drowsy tune. 


In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire 


Telling of countless sunny hours, 


The fount that builds a silvery dome ; 


Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, 
In Indian wildernesses found ; 


And flakes of purple and ruby fire 
Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. 


Of Syrian peace, inmiortal leisure, 


The fair white bird of flaming crest. 


Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 


And azure wings bedropt with gold. 


Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 


Ne'er has he known a pause of rest, 

But sings the lament that he framed of old : 


But violets, and bilberry bells. 
Maple sap, and daffodels, 


" ! Princess bright ! how long the night 


Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, 


Since thou art sunk in the waters clear ! 


And brier-roses, dwelt among : 
All beside was unknown waste. 


How sadly they flow from the depth below — 


How long must I sing and thou wilt not 

1 n 


AU was picture as he passed. 


hear? 


Wiser far than human seer. 


" The waters play, and the flowers are gay. 


Yellow-breeched philosopher, 


And the skies are sunny above ; 


Seeing only what is fair, 


I would that all could fade and fall. 


Sipping only what is sweet, 


And I, too, cease to mourn my love. 



THE PALM. 



IS 



" 1 manj a year, so wakeful and drear, 
I liave sorrowed and watched, beloved, for 

thee! 
But there comes no breath from the chambers 

of death, 
While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree." 

The skies grow dark, and they glare with red; 
The tree shakes off its spicy bloom ; 
The waves of the fount in a black pool spread ; 
And in thunder sounds the garden's doom. 

Down springs the bu:d with long shrill cry. 
Into the sable and angry flood ; 
And the face of the pool, as he falls from high, 
Curdles in circling stains of blood. 

But sudden again ups wells the fount ; 
Higher and higher the waters flow — 
In a glittering diamond arch they mount, 
And round it the colors of morning glow. 

Finer and finer the watery mound 
Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil, 
And tones of music circle around. 
And bear to the stars the fountain's tale. 

And swift the eddying rainbow screen 
Falls in dew on the grassy floor ; 
Under the Spice Tree the garden's Queen, 
Sits by her lover, who wails no more. 

John SiEBLma. 



THE AEAB TO THE PALM. 

Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 

Beddowee girl, beloved so well 

IsText to the fearless l^Tedjidee, 

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee ; 

Next to ye both, I love the Palm, 

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 

Kext to ye both, I love the tree 
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
With love, and silence, and mystery ! 



Our tribe is many, our poets vie 

With any under the Arab sky ; 

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem 

Cairo's citadel-diadem 

Are not so light as his slender stem. 

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, 
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance — 

A slumberous motion, a passionate sign. 
That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 

Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
Dreaming where the beloved may be. 

And when the warm south winds arise. 
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs. 

Quickening odors, kisses of balm. 
That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 

The sun may flame, and the sands may stu*. 
But the breath of his passion reaches her. 

Tree of Love, by that love of thme, 
Teach me how I shaU soften mine ! 

Give me the secret of the sun. 
Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 

If I were a king, O stately Tree, 
A likeness, glorious as Aight be. 
In the court of my palace I 'd build for thee I 

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright. 
And leaves of beryl and malachite ; 

With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze, 
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase. 

And there the poets, in thy praise. 

Should night and mornmg frame new lays 

New measures sung to tunes divine • 
But none, O Palm, should equal mine ! 

Bayaed Taylob, 



74 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



THE TIGER. 

TiGEE ! Tiger ! burning briglit, 
In the forests of the night ; 
"What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
"What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
"What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
TVhat the anvil ? What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down theu' spears. 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did he smile his work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright. 
In the forests of the night ; 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

■WiLLiAii Blake. 



THE LION'S EIDE. 

The lion is the desert's king; through his 

domain so wide 
Right swiftly and right royally this night he 

means to ride. 
By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds 

di-ink, close couches the grim chief; 
The trembling sycamore above whispers with 

every leaf. 

At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye 

can see no more 
The changeful play of signals gay ; when the 

gloom is speckled o'er 



With kraal fires; when the Caffre wends 
home through the lone karroo ; 

When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and 
by the stream the gnu ; 

Then bend your gaze across the waste — what 
see ye? The giraffe. 

Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the tur- 
bid lymph to quaff; 

With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he 
kneels him down to cool 

His hot thirst with a welcome draught from 
the foul and brackish pool. 

A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the lion 

sits astride 
Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king 

so ride ? 
Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of 

state 
To match the dappled skin whereon that 

rider sits elate ? 



In the muscles of the neck his teeth are 
plunged with ravenous greed ; 

His tawny mane is tossing round the withers 
of the steed. 

Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and 
surprise. 

Away, away, in wUd dismay, the camel-leop- 
ard flies. 



His feet have wings; see how he springs 

across the moonlit plain ! 
As from their sockets they would burst, his 

glaring eyeballs strain ; 
In thick black streams of purling blood, fuU 

fast his life is fleeting ; 
The stillness of the desert hears his heart's 

tumultuous beating. 

Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, 
the path of Israel traced — 

Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit 
of the waste — 

From the sandy sea uprising, as the water- 
spout from ocean, 

A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the 
courser's fiery motion. 



THE LION AND GIRAFFE. 



15 



Croaking companion of their flight, the vul- 
ture whirs on high ; 

Below, the terror of the fold, the panther, 
fierce and sly, 

And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, 
join in the horrid race ; 

By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, 
their monarch's course they trace. 

They see him on his living throne, and quake 

with fear, the while 
"With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his 

cushion's painted pile. 
On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life 

and strength remain ! 
The steed by such a rider backed, may madly 

plunge in vain. 

Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and 

breathes his last ; 
The courser, stained with dust and foam, is 

the rider's fell repast. 
O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush 

is descried : — 
Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king 

of beasts doth ride. 

Feedinand Feeiligeath. (German) 
Anonymous translation. 



THE LION AOT) GIRATFE 

WouLDST thou view the lion's den ? 
Search afar from haunts of men— 
Where the reed-encu'cled rill 
Oozes from the rocky hill, 
By its verdure far descried 
'Mid the desert brown and wide. 

Close beside the sedgy brim, 
Couchant, lurks the lion grim ; 
Watching till the close of day 
Brings the death-devoted prey. 
Heedless at the ambushed brink 
The tall giraffe stoops down to drink ; 
Upon him straight, the savage springs 
With cruel joy. The desert rings 
With clanging sound of desperate strife — 
The prey is strong, and he strives for life. 



Plunging off with frantic bound 

To shake the tyrant to the ground, 

He shrieks — he rushes through the waste. 

With glaring eye and headlong haste. 

In vain! — the spoiler on his prize 

Rides proudly — tearing as he flies. 

For life — ^the victim's utmost speed 

Is mustered in this hour of need. 

For life — for life — ^his giant might 

He strains, and pours his soul in flight ; 

And mad with terror, thirst, and pain. 

Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. 

'Tis vain ; the thirsty sands are drinking 

His streaming blood — his strength is sinking; 

The victor's fangs are in his veins — 

His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains — 

His panting breast in foam and gore 

Is bathed — ^he reels — his race is o'er. 

He falls — and, with convulsive throe, 

Resigns his throat to the ravening foe ! 

— And lo ! ere quivering life is fled. 

The vultures, wheeling over head. 

Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array. 

Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. 

Thomas Pbinglb. 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

Afae in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; 
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 
And shadows of things that have long since fled 
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the 

dead: 
Bright visions of glory that vanished too 

soon; 
Day-dreams; that departed ere manhood's 

noon; 
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ; 
Companions of early days lost or left — 
And my native land — whose magical name 
Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 
The home of my childhood ; the haunts of 

my prime ; 
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous 

time 



76 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



When tlie feelings were young, and the world 

was new, 
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to 

^iew; 
All — all now forsaken — forgotten — ^foregone ! 
And I — a lone exile remembered of none — 
My high aims abandoned, — my good acts 

undone — 
Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 
"With that sadness of heart which no stranger 

may scan, 
I fly to the Desert afar from man 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and 

strife — 
The proud man's frown, and the base man's 

fear-r- 
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear — 
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, 

and folly. 
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are 

high. 
And my soul is sick with the bondman's 

sigh— 
Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and 

pride. 
Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! 
There is rapture to vault on the champing 

steed, 
And to bound away with the eagle's speed, 
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand — 
The only law of the Desert Land ! 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
Away — away from the dwellings of men. 
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 
By valleys remote where the oribi plays. 
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the harte- 

beest graze, 
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with 

wild vine; 
Where the elephant browses at peace in his 

wood, 
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the 

flood. 



And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his 

fin. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 

O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating 

cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling 

neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste. 
Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scooped their 

nest. 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
Away — away — ^in the wilderness vast, 
Where the white man's foot hath never 

passed. 
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan : 
A region of emptiness, howling and drear. 
Which man hath abandoned from famine and 

fear; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. 
With the twilight bat from the yawning 

stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root. 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink. 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's brink ; 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
AVhere sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round. 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night-winds round me 

sigh, 
And the stars bum bright in the midnight 

sky, 



SUMMER RAIN. 



11 



As I sit apart by the desert stone, 

Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, 

"A still small voice" comes through the 

wUd 
(Like a father consoling his fretfnl child). 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, — 
Saying — ^Man is distant, bnt God is near ! 

Thomas Pbingle. 



THE BLOOD HOESE. 

Gamaeea is a dainty steed. 

Strong, black, and of a noble breed. 

Full of fire, and full of bone. 

With all his line of fathers known ; 

Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 

But blown abroad by the pride within ! 

His mane is like a river flowing. 

And his eyes like embers glowing 

In the darkness of the night. 

And his pace as swift as light. 

Look, — how 'round his straining throat 

Grace and shifting beauty float 

Sinewy strength is i^ his reins. 

And the red blood gallops through his veins,- 

Eicher, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 

He, who hath no peer, was born. 

Here, upon a red March morn ; 

But his famous fathers dead 

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 

And the last of that great line 

Trod like one of a race divine ! 

And yet, — he was but friend to one. 

Who fed him at the set of sun. 

By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived, (none else would he obey 

Through all the hot Arabian day,) — 

And died untamed upon the sands 

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands ! 

Baert Cornwall. 



INTOOATIOJN" TO EATNT IN SUMMEE. 

GENTLE, gentle, summer rain, 

Let not the silver lily pine. 
The drooping lily pine in vain 

To feel that dewy touch of thine — 
To drink thy freshness once again, 
gentle, gentle, summer rain ! 

In heat the landscape quivering lies ; 

The cattle pant beneath the tree ; 
Through parching air and purple skies 

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee ; 
For thee — for thee, it looks in vain, 
O gentle, gentle summer rain ' 

Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams, 
And soften all the hills with mist, 

O falling dew ! from burning dreams 
By thee shall herb and flower be kissed , 

And Earth shall bless thee yet again, 

O gentle, gentle, summer rain. 

TV". C. Ben^tett. 



SUMMEE STOEM. 

Unteemtjlotjs in the river clear 
Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged 
bridge ; 
So still the air, that I can hear 
The slender clarion of the unseen midge ; 

Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, 
Like rising wind in leaves, which now de- 
creases, 
Ij^ow lulls, now swells, and all the while 
increases, 
The huddling trample of a drove of sheep 
Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually 
ceases 
In dust on the other side ; life's emblem 
deep — 
A confused noise between two silences. 
Finding at last in dust precarious peace. 

On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed 
grasses 
Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brim- 
ming tide, 



■78 



POEMS OF NATURE, 



Save when the wedge-shaped wake in 
silence passes 

Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous 
glide 

"Wavers the long green sedge's shade from 
side to side ; 
But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, 

Climbs a great cloud edged with sun- 
whitened spray ; 
Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its 
verge, 

And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs 
alway. 

Suddenly all the sky is hid 

As with the shutting of a lid ; 
One by one great drops are falling 

Doubtful and slow ; 
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling. 

And the wind breathes low ; 
Slowly the circles widen on the river. 

Widen and mingle, one and all ; 
Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver. 

Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. 

ITow on the hills I hear the thunder mutter ; 

The wind is gathering in the west ; 
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter. 

Then droop to a fitful rest ; 
Up from the stream with sluggish flap 

Struggles the gull, and floats away ; 
Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap—' 

We shall not see the sun go down to-day. 
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 

And tramples the grass with terrified feet ; 
The startled river turns leaden and harsh — 

You can hear the quick heart of the tem- 
pest beat. 

Look ! look ! that livid flash ! 
And instantly follows the rattling thunder. 
As if some cloud-crag, split asunder. 

Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash. 
On the earth, which crouches in silence 
under ; 
And now a solid gray wall of rain 
Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile. 
For a breath's space I see the blue wood 
again. 
And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled 
pile. 



That seemed but now a league aloof 
Bursts rattling over the sun-parched roof. 

Against the windows the storm comes dash- 
ing; 
Through tattered foliage the hail tears crash- 
ing; 
The blue lightning flashes; 
The rapid hail clashes ; 
The white waves are tumbling ; 

And, in one baffled roar. 
Like the toothless sea mumbling 

A rock-bristled shore, 
The thunder is rumbling 
And crashing and crumbling, — 
Will silence return never more ? 



Hush ! Still as death. 
The tempest holds his breath, 
As from a sudden will ; 
The rain stops short ; but from the eaves 
You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves — 
All is so bodingly still ; 
Again, now, now, again 
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts ; 
The crinkled lightning 
Seems ever brightening ; 
, And loud and long 
Again the thunder shouts 
His battle-song. 
One quivering flash. 
One wildering crash. 
Followed by silence dead and dull, 
As if the cloud, let go. 
Leapt bodily below. 
To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow — 
And then a total lull. 



Gone, gone, so soon ! 
No more my half-crazed fancy there 
Can shape a giant in the air ; 
No more I see his streaming hair. 
The writhing portent of his form ; — 
The pale and quiet moon 
Makes her calm forehead bare. 
And the last fragments of the storm. 
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, 
Silent and few, are drifting over me. 

James Extssell Lowell. 



SUMMER RAIN. 



19 



EAIN m SUMMER. 

How beantiful is the rain ! 
After the dust and heat 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, — 
How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river, down the gutter roars 

The raid, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool , 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again. 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

"With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets. 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide. 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

"With their dilated nostrils spread. 

They silently iuhale 

The clover-scented gale, 



And the vapors that arise 

From the well watered and smoking soU ; 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees. 

The farmer sees 

His pastures and his fields of grain. 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering every where 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, 

Have not been whoUy sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

FoUows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound. 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven. 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the seer. 
With vision clear. 
Sees forms appear and disappear. 
In the perpetual round of strange, 
Mysterious change 

From bii-th to death, from death to birth, 
From earth to heaven, from heaven to 
earth • 



80 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Till glimpses more sublime, 
Of things unseen before, 
Unto Ms wondering eyes reveal 
The universe, as an immeasurable wheel 
Turning for evermore 
In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 
Henet Wadswobth Longfellow. 



THE CLOUD. 

I BEING- fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 

The sweet birds every one, 
"When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under ; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain ; 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the ai-ms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 

Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder ; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
"Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream, 

The spirit he loves, remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread. 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
"When the morning star shines dead. 



As, on the jag of a mountain crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings ; 
And when sunset may breathe, froru the lit 
sea beneath. 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 

As stiU as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

TiU the cahn river, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch, through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
"When the powers of the air are chained to 
my chair. 

Is the miUion-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing be- 
low. 

I am the daughter of the earth and water, 
And the nurseling of the sky ; 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores ; 
I change, but I cannot die. 



SUMMER WINDS. 



For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 
The pavilion of heaven is bare, 

And the winds and sunbeams, with their 
convex gleams, 
Build up the blue dome of air— 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a 



81 



ghost 



from the tomb^ 
I rise and upbuild it again. 

Peecy Bysshe Shbllet 



DEINKING. 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain. 
And drinks, and gapes for drink again; 
The plants suck in the earth, and are. 
With constant drmking, fresh and fair; 
The sea itself, (which one would think 
Should have but little need of drink,) 
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up. 
So filled that they o'erflow the cup. 
The busy sun (and one would guess 
By's drunken fiery face no less,) 
Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done. 
The moon and stars drink up the sun : 
They drink and dance by their own light ; 
They drink and revel all the night. 
Nothing in nature's sober found. 
But an eternal "health" goes round. 
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high- 
Fill all the glasses there ; for why 
Should every creature drink but I; 
Why, man of morals, tell me why? 

Translation of Abbaham Cowle^''''^^''- ^^'''^> 



THE MIDGES DAN"CE ABOOK TBE 
BURN. 

The midges dance aboon the burn ; 

The dews begin to fa' ; 
The pairtricks down the rushy holm 

Set up their e'eniug ca'. 
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 

Rings through the briery shaw, 
While flitting gay, the swaHows play 

Around the castle wa'. 
6 



Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 

The mavis mends her lay ; 
The red-breast pours his sweetest strains. 

To charm the ling'ring day ; 
While weary yeldi-ins seem to wail 

Their little nestlings torn. 
The merry wren, frae den to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The foxglove shuts its bell ; 
The honey-suckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the del . 
Let others crowd the giddy court 

Of mirth and revelry. 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer far to me. 

EOBEET TaNNAHILL. 



SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. 

Up the dale and down the bourne. 
O'er the meadow swift we fly ; 

Now we sing, and now we mourn. 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy-fringed river, 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ; 
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver. 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose is blushing 

At the frolic things we say. 
While aside her cheek we 're rushing. 

Like some truant bees at play. 

Through the blooming groves we rustle. 

Kissing every bud we pass,- 
As we did it in the bustle, 

Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 
O'er the yellow heath we roam. 

Whirling round about the fountain. 
Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down the weeping willows, 
While our vesper hymn we sigh; 

Then unto our rosy pillows 
On our weary wings we hie. 



82 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


There of idlenesses dreaming, 


Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 


Scarce from waking we refrain, 


Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! thou, 


Moments long as ages deeming 


Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed 


Till we're at our play again. 


The winged seeds, where they lie cold and 


Geoege Dabley. 


low, 




Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 




THE WAOTDERmG WIND. 


Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 




(Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in 


The Wind, the wandering Wind 


air) 


Of the golden summer eves — 


With living hues and odors, plain and hill : 


Whence is the thrilling magic 




Of its tones amongst the leaves ? 




Oh ! is it from the waters. 


Wild spirit, which are moving everywhere ; 


Or, from the long, tall grass ? 


Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh hear ! 


Or is it from the hollow rocks 




Through which its breathings pass? 


II. 




Thou, on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's 


Or is it from the voices 


commotion. 


Of all in one combined. 


Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are 


That it wins the tone of mastery? 


shed. 


The Wind, the wandering Wind! 


Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and 


No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 


ocean. 


That with it come and go, 




They are not from the osiers, 
Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 


Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 


On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 




Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 


They are not of the waters, 




Nor of the caverned hill ; 




'Tis the human love within us 


Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 


That gives them power to thrill : 


verge 


They touch the links of memory 


Of the horizon to the zenith's height. 


Around our spirits twined. 


The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 


And we start, and weep, and tremble. 


dirge 


To the Wind, the wandering Wind! 




Felicia Hemaxs. 


Of the dying year, to which this closing night 




Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 




ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 


Of vapors ; from whose solid atmosphere 




Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : Oh 


I. 


hear! 


WILD West Wind, thou breath of autumn's 


lU. 


being. 




Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves 


Thou who didst waken from his summer 


dead 


dreams 


Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter 


The blue Mediterranean, where he lay. 


fleeing — 


Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. 



THE OCEAN. 



88 



Beside a pumice isle in Baise's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers, 
Quivering witMn the waves' intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
So sweet the sense faints picturing them! 

Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while, far he- 
low. 

The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which 
wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh 
hear! 

rv. 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; — 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; — 
A wave to pant beneath thy power and share 
The impulse of thy strength — only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have 
striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and 

bowed • 
One too like thee — ^tameless, and swift, and 

proud. 



Male me thy lyre, even as the forest is. 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone — 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit 

fierce, 
M}' spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one I 



Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. 
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O wind. 
If winter comes, can spring be far behind ? 
Pbecy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE OCEAK 

Likeness of heaven ! 
Agent of power ! 
Man is thy victim. 
Shipwrecks thy dower ! 
Spices and jewels 
From valley and sea, 
Armies and banners, 
Are buried in thee I 

What are the riches 
Of Mexico's mines 
To the wealth that far down 
In the deep water shines ? 
The proud navies that cover 
The conquering West — 
Thou fling 'st them to death 
With one heave of thy breast. 

From the high hills that vizor 

Thy wreck-making shore, — 

When the bride of the mariner 

Shrieks at thy roar. 

When, like lambs in the tempest 

Or mews in the blast, 

O 'er thy ridge-broken billows 

The canvas is cast, — 

How humbling to one 
With a heart and a soul. 
To look on thy greatness. 
And list to its roll ; 
To think how that heart 
In cold ashes shall be. 
While the voice of eternity 
Kises from thee I 



84 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


Yes ! where are the cities 


When every mad wave drowns the moon, 


Of Thebes and of Tyre 


Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 


Swept from the nations 


And tells how goeth the world below. 


Like sparks from the fire ; 


And why the sou'west blasts do blow. 


The glory of Athens, 




The splendor of Rome, 
Dissolved — and for ever — 


I never was on the dull, tame shore. 


Like dew in thy foam. 


But I loved the great sea more and more. 


And backward flew to her billowy breast, 




Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 


But thou art almighty — 


And a mother she was, and is, to me; 


Eternal — sublime — 


For I was born on the open sea ! 


Unweakened — ^unwasted — 




Twin-brother of Time ! 




Fleets, tempests, nor nations 


The waves were white, and red the morn, 


Thy glbry can bow ; 


In the noisy hour when I was born ; 


As the stars first beheld thee, 


And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 


Still chainless art thou ! 


And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 




And never was heard such an outcry wild 


But hold ! when thy surges 


As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! 


No longer shall roll, 




And that firmament's length 


I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 


Is drawn back like a scroll ; 


Full fifty summers, a sailor's life. 


Then — ^then shall the spirit 


With wealth to spend and a power to range, 


That sighs by thee now. 


But never have sought nor sighed for change; 


Be more mighty, more lasting. 


And Death, whenever he comes to me. 


More chainless than thou ! 


Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea 1 


John AuGusTTrs Shea. 


Baeby Cornwall. 


TTTE SEA. 


THE STOEMY PETREL. 


The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 


A THOUSAND miles from land are we, 


The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 


Tossing about on the roaring sea — 


"Without a mark, without a bound. 


From billow to bounding billow cast, 


■ 7 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 


Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 


It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 


The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; 


Or like a cradled creature lies. 


The strong masts shake like Quivering reeds ; 




The mighty cables and iron chains ; 




The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,— 


I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! 


They strain and they crack ; and hearts like 


I am where I would ever be ; 


stone 


With the blue above, and the blue below. 


Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 


And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 




If a storm should come and awake the deep, 
What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 


Up and down ! — ^up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow's 


I love, 0, how I love to ride 


crown, 
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam, 


On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 


The stormy petrel finds a home 



THE OCEAN. 



86 



A. home, if such a place maj be 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air. 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 

To warm her young, and to teacli them to 

spring 
At once o'er the waves on their stormy 

wing! 

O'er the deep ! — o'er the deep ! 

"Where the whale, and the shark, and the 

sword-fish sleep — 
Outflying the blast and the driving rain. 
The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Which bringeth him news of the storm un- 
heard ! 
Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; 
Yet he ne'er falters— so, petrel, spring 
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy 



wmgi 



Baeey Coenwall. 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWmO SEA. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea — 

A wind that follows fast. 
And fills the white and rustling sail. 

And bends the gallant mast — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high — 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home. 

And merry men are we. 

There 's tempest in yon horned moon, 
And lightning in yon cloud ; 

And hark the music, mariners ! 
The wind is piping loud — 



The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
The lightning flashing free ; 

While the hollow oak our palace is, 
Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunnings 



TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy ; 

The wind blows wild and free ; 
And like the wings of sea-birds 

Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night ; 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness. 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
l^ow rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean 
And the night- wind, bleak and wUd, 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
TeU to that little child? 

And why do the roaring ocean. 
And the night-wind, wild and bleak. 

As they beat at the heart of the mother. 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 

Henet "Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



STORM SONG. 

The clouds are scudding across the moon ; 

A misty light is on the sea ; 
The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune. 

And the foam is flying free. 



86 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 


For man soon breathes his last, 


Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar ; 


And all his hope is past. 


Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room, 


And aU his music mute. 


A thousand miles from shore. 






Then, when the gale is sighing, 


Down with the hatches on those who sleep I 


And when the leaves are dying. 


The wild and whistling deck have we ; 


And when the song is o'er, 


Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep. 


Oh, let us think of those 


While the tempest is on the sea ! 


Whose lives are lost in woes. 




Whose cup of grief runs o'er. 


Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip, 


Hbnbt Nkklb. 


And the naked spars be snapped away, 
Lashed to the helm, we'll drive our ship 




• 


In the teeth of the whelming spray I 






SEAWEED. 


Hark ! how the surges o'erleap the deck ! 




Hark ! how the pitiless tempest raves ! 


When descends on the Atlantic 


Ah, dayhght will look upon many a wreck 


The gigantic 


Drifting over the desert waves. 


Storm- wind of the equinox. 




Landward in his wrath he scourges 




The toiling surges, 


Yet, courage, brothers ! we trust the wave, 


Laden with seaweed from the rocks ; 


"With God above us, our guiding chart. 




So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave, 




Be it still with a cheery heart ! 


From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 


Bayaed Tayloe. 


Of sunken ledges 




In some far-oflP, bright Azore ; 


^ 


From Bahama, and the dashing, 






Silver-flashing 




Surges of San Salvador ; 


MOAN, MOA]!T, YE DYING GALES. 






From the tumbling surf that buries 


Moan, moan, ye dying gales ! 


The Orkneyan skerries. 


The saddest of your tales 


Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 


Is not so sad as life ; 


And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 


Nor have you e'er began 


Spars, uplifting 


A theme so wild as man, 


On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 


Or with such sorrow rife. 




Fall, fall, thou withered leaf! 


Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 


Autnmn sears not like grief. 


On the shifting 


Nor kills such lovely flowers ; 
More terrible the storm. 


Currents of the restless main ; 
TiU in sheltered coves, and reaches 


More mournful the deform. 
When dark misfortune lowers. 


Of sandy beaches. 
All have found repose again. 


Hush ! hush ! thou trembling lyre. 


So when storms of wild emotion 


Silence, ye vocal choir. 


Strike the ocean 


And thou, mellifluous lute. 


Of the poet's soul, ere long. 



THE SEA— IN CALM. 



81 



From each cave and rocky fastness 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams eljsian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong will, and the endeavor 

That for ever 
Wrestles with the tides of fate ; 
From the wreck of hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 



Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

Thej, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 

HENKY WaDSWOETH LONaFELLOW. 



GULF-WEED. 

A WEAEY weed, tossed to and fro, 

Drearily drenched in the ocean brine, 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lashed along without will of mine ; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea ; 

Flung on the foam, afar and anear, 
Mark my manifold mystery, — 

Growth and grace in their place appear. 

I bear round berries, gray and red. 

Bootless and rover though I be ; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 

Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
Corals curious coat me o'er. 

White and hard in apt array ; 
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar. 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 



Hearts there are on the sounding shore. 

Something whispers soft to me, 
Eestless and roaming for evermore, 

Like this weary weed of the sea ; 
Bear they yet on each beating breast 

The eternal type of the wondrous whole : 
Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 

Grace informing with silent soul. 

COENELIXJS GbOEGE FeNNEE. 



THE SEA— IN CALM. 

Look what immortal floods the sunset pours 
Upon us — ^Mark ! how still (as though in 

dreams 
Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean 

seems ! 
How silent are the windi^j ! no biUow roars ; 
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores. 
The silver margin which aye runneth round 
The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound; 
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors ! 
What ! is the giant of the ocean dead, 
Whose strength was all unmatched beneath 

the sun ? 
ISTo : he reposes ! Now his toils are done ; 
More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. 
So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed. 
And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be! 

BAEEY COEKWAIL. 



THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. 



Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice, 
And with that boding cry 
O 'er the waves dost thou fly ? 
! rather, bird, with me 
Through the fair land rejoice ! 

n. 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
Thy cry is weak and scared. 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 
What does it bring to me ? 



88 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



III. 

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt 'st the 
surge, 
Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery — the "Word. 

IV. 

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, 
Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o 'er the dead 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells — 
Tells of man's woe and fall, 
His sinless glory fled. 

V. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness 
bring 
Thy spirit never more. 
Come, quit with me the shore 
For gladness, and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 

ElCHAED HeKRT DaKA. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove. 

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove ; 

Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 

blue 
That never are wet with falling dew. 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and billows 

flow; 
The water is calm and still below, 
For the winds and waves are absent there, 
And the sands are bright as the stars that 

glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air. 



There, with its waving blade of green. 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 

And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 

There, with a light and easy motion. 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep 

sea; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland lea. 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own. 
And when the ship from his fury flies, 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky 

skies, 
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; 
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. 
The purple muUet and gold-flsh rove 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 
James Gates Peecival. 



HAMPTON BEACH. 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 

Where, miles away. 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light. 
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of 
sandy gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the sea ! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree. 
Still as a picture, clear and free. 
With varying outline mark the coast for 
miles around. 

On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 

Our seaward way, 
Through dark-green fields and blossoming 

grain. 
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane. 
And bends above our heads the flowering- 
locust spray. 



SENECA LAKE. 



89 



Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 

Comes this fresh breeze, 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 
"While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life — the healing of the 
! 



Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ankles greenly round 
With long and tangled moss, and weeds with 
cool spray wet. 

Good-bye to pain and care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day ; 
Here, where these sunny waters break, 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary 
thoughts away. 

I draw a freer breath ; I seem 

Like all I see — 
"Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 
And far-off sails which flit before the south 
wind free. 

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, 

The soul may know 
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder. 
Nor sink the weight of mystery under. 
But with the upward rise, and with the vast- 
ness grow. 

And all we shrink from now may seem 

No new revealing — 
Familiar as our childhood's stream, 
Or pleasant memory of a dream, 
The loved and cherished Past upon the new 
life stealing. 

Serene and mild, the untried light 

May have its dawning ; 
And, as in Summer's northern light 
The evening and the dawn unite. 
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's 
new morning. 



I sit alone ; 'in foam and spray 

Wave after wave 
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray. 
Beneath like fallen Titans lay. 
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy 
cleft and cave. 

What heed I of the dusty land 

And noisy town ? 
I see the mighty deep expand 
From its white line of glimmering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves 
shuts down ! 

In listless quietude of mind, 

I yield to aU 
The change of cloud and wave and wind ; 
And passive on the flood reclined, 
I wander with the waves, and with them rise 
and fall. * 

But look, thou dreamer ! — ^wave and shore 

In shadow lie ; 
The night-wind warns me back once more 
To where my native hill-tops o'er 
Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset 



So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell ! 

I bear with me 
No token stone nor glittering shell. 
But long and oft shall Memory tell 
Of this brief, thoughtful, hour of musing by 
the sea. 

John Geeenleat Whittiee. 



TO SENECA LAE:E. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 

And round his breast the ripples break. 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. 
The dipping paddle echoes far. 

And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
And bright reflects the polar star. 



90 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
As blows the north-wind, heave their foam 

And curl around the dashing oar. 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
A sheet of silver spreads below. 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
O ! I could ever sweep the oar, — 

"When early birds at morning wake, 
And evening tells us toil is o'er. 

James Gates Peboivai.. 



TAKROW UNYISITED. 

Feom Stirling castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome marrow :" 
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
And see the braes of Yarrow." 

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 

"Who have been buying, selling. 

Go back to Yarrow ; 'tis their own — 

Each maiden to her dwelling ! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

"There's Galla "Water, Leader Haughs, 
Both lying right before us ; 
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 
The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 

* See the various poems, the scene of which is laid upon 
the hanks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite 
ballad of Hamilton, on page 450 of this volume, begin- 
ning: 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow 1 " 



There 's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
"Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

" WTiat's Yarrow but a river bare, 

That glides the dark hills under? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere. 

As worthy of your wonder." 

Strange words they seemed, of slight and 

scorn ; 
M.J true-love sighed for sorrow, 
And looked me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

"0, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
"We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 

"Let beeves and homebred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
"We will not see them ; will not go 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough, if in our hearts we know 
There 's such a place as Yarrow. 

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
"We have a vision of our own ; 
Ah! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
"We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow! 

"K care with freezing years should come. 
And wandering seem but foUy, — 
Should we be loth to stir from home. 
And yet be melancholy, — 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'T wiU soothe us in our sorrow, 
That earth has something yet to show — 
The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 

William Woedswoeth. 



YAREOW. 91 




Meek loveliness is round thee spread — 


yAerow visited. 


A softness still and holy. 


j^jjp is this — Yarrow? — ^This the stream 


The grace of forest charms decayed, 


Of which my fancy cherished, 


And pastoral melancholy. 


So faithfully, a waking dream? 




An image that hath perished ! 


That region left, the vale unfolds 


that some minstrel's harp were near, 


Eich groves of lofty stature, 


To utter notes of gladness, 


With Yarrow winding through the pomp 


And chase this silence from the air. 


Of cultivated nature ; 


That fills my heart with sadness ! 


And, rising from those lofty groves, 




Behold a ruin hoary ! 


Yet why? — a silvery current flows 


The shattered front of Newark's towers, 


"With uncontrolled meanderings ; 


Eenowned in border story. 


Kor have these eyes by greener hills 




Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 


Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 


And, through her depths, Saint Mary's lake 


For sportive youth to stray in ; 


Is visibly delighted ; 


For manhood to enjoy his strength, 


For not a feature of those hills 


And age to wear away in ! 


Is in the mirror slighted. 


Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 




A covert for protection 


A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 


Of tender thoughts, that nestle there, — 


Save where that pearly whiteness 


The brood of chaste affection. 


Is round the rising sun diffused — 




A tender, hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 


How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
The wild-wood fruits to gather, 


All profitless dejection; 


And on my true-love's forehead plant 


Though not unwilling here to admit 
A pensive recollection. 


A crest of blooming heather ! 
And what if I inwreathed my own ! 


Where was it that the famous Flower 


'T were no offence to reason ; 


Of Yarrow Yale lay bleeding ? 


The sober hiUs thus deck their brows 


His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 


To meet the wintry season. 


On which the herd is feeding ; 




And haply from this crystal pool. 


I see, — ^but not by sight alone. 


Kow peaceful as the morning. 


Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 


The water-wraith ascended thrice, 


A ray of fancy still survives, — 


And gave his doleful warning. 


Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 




Thy ever-youthful waters keep 


Delicious is the lay that sings 


A course of lively pleasure ; 


The haunts of happy lovers — 


And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 


The path that leads them to the grove. 


Accordant to the measure. 


The leafy grove that covers ; 




And pity sanctifies the verse 


The vapors linger round the heights ; 


That paints, by strength of sorrow, 


They melt, and soon must vanish ; 


The unconquerable strength of love • 


One hour is theirs, nor more is mine : 


Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 


Sad thought, which I would banish 




But that I know, where'er I go, 


But thou, that didst appear so fair 


Thy genuine image, Yarrow, 


To fond imagination, 


Will dwell with me, to heighten joy, 


Dost rival in the light of day 


And cheer my mind in sorrow. 


Her delicate creation. 


William Woeds-r^obth. 



92 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



YAKROW REVISITED. 



The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed 
with Sir Walter Scott and other friends, visiting the hanks 
of the Yarrow under his guidance— immediately before 
his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. 



The gallant youth, wlio may have gained, 

Or seeks, a "winsome marrow," 
"Was but an infant in the lap 

TVTien first I looked on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate — 

Long left without a warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, and with thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 



Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

"Were on the bough, or falling ; 
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed. 

The forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 



For busy thoughts, the stream flowed on 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation. 
!N"o public and no private care 

The freeborn mind enthralling. 
We made a day of happy hours. 

Our happy days recalling. 



Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth, 

"With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate noon, her sober eve. 

Her night not melancholy ; 
Past, present, future, all appeared 

In harmony united, 
Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
And down the meadow ranging. 

Did meet us with unaltered face. 

Though we were changed and changing- 



If, then, some natural shadowy spread 

Our inward prospect over. 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet. 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And care waylays their steps, — a sprite 

Not easUy eluded. 

For thee, O Soott ! compelled to change 

Green Eildon Hill and Cheviot 
For warm Yesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mUd Sorrento's breezy waves ; 

May classic fancy, linking 
"With native fancy her fresh aid. 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

0, while they minister to thee. 

Each vying with the other, 
May health return to mellow age, 

"With strength, her venturous brother ; 
And Tiber, and each brook and riU 

Renowned in song and story, 
"With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory! 

For thou, upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sorrow. 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

"Wherever thjey invite thee, 
At parent Nature's grateful call 

"With gladness must requite thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine — • 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

"When first I gazed upon her — 
Beheld what I had feared to see. 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days 

The holy and the tender. 



SEPTEMBER. 



93 



And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer, 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self— 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

]S"or deem that localized romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 
XJnsanctifies our tears, — made sport 

For fanciful dejections. 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is, — our changeful life. 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered ; 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the "last Minstrel," (not the last!) 

Ere he his tale recounted ! 

Flow on for ever. Yarrow stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
Well pleased that future bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine, 
And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 

WlLlIAM WOKDSWORTH. 



A SONG FOR SEPTEMBER. 

September strews the woodland o 'er 

With many a brilliant color ; 
The world is brighter than before — 

Why should our hearts be duller? 
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf. 

Sad thoughts and sunny weather ! 
Ah me ! this glory and this grief 

Agree not well together. 



This is the parting season — this 

The time when friends are flying ; 
And lovers now, with many a kiss, 

Their long farewells are sighing. 
Why is Earth so gayly drest ? 

This pomp, that Autumn beareth, 
A funeral seems, where every guest 

A bridal garment weareth. 

Each one of us, perchance, may here, 

On some blue morn hereafter, 
Return to view the gaudy year. 

But not with boyish laughter. 
We shall then be wrinkled men. 

Our brows with silver laden. 
And thou this glen may'st seek again, 

But nevermore a maiden ! 

Nature perhaps foresees that Spring 

Will touch her teeming bosom, 
And that a few brief months will bring 

The bird, the bee, the blossom ; 
Ah ! these- forests do not know — 

Or would less brightly wither — 
The virgin that adorns them so 

Will never more come hither ! 

Thomas William Parsons. 



FIDELITY. 

A BAEETNiG souud the shepherd hears, 
A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts, — and searches with his eyes 
Among the scattered rocks ; 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And instantly a dog is seen, 
Glancing through that covert green. 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy — 

With something, as the shepherd thinks. 

Unusual in its cry ; 

Nor is there any one in sight 

All round, in hollow or on height ; 

Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. 

What is the creature doino; here ? 



94 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 

Far in the bosom of H'elvellTn, 

Eemote from public road or dwelling, 

Pathway, or cultivated land, — 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak 
In symphony austere ; 
Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud. 
And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast. 
That, if it could, would hurry past ; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog 
As quickly as he may ; 
Nor far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground. 
The appalled discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The man had fallen, that place of fear ! 

At length upon the shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear. 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came ; 

Kemembered, too, the very day 

On which the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I teU ! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The dog, which still was hovering nigh. 

Repeating the same timid cry. 

This dog had been through three months' 

space 
A dweUer in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
When this ill-fated traveller died, 
The dog had watched about the spot, 
Or by his master's side. 



How nourished here through such long time 
He knows who gave that love sublime, 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate ! 

William Wokdswoeth. 



TO MEADOWS. 

Ye have been fresh and green ; 

Ye have been filled with flowers ; 
And ye the walks have been 

Where maids have spent their hours ; 

Ye have beheld where they 

With wicker arks did come, 
To kiss and bear away 

The richer cowslips home; 

You 've heard them sweetly sing, 

And seen them in a round ; 
Each virgin, like the Spring, 

With honeysuckles crowned. 

But now we see none here 
Whose silvery feet did tread, 

And with dishevelled hair 
Adorned this smoother mead. 

Like unthrifts, having spent 
Your stock, and needy grown. 

You 're left here to lament 
Your poor estates alone. 

EOBEET HeeRIOK. 



TO THE FEINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew. 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 



AUTUMN. 95 


Or columbines, in purple dressed, 


What the dream, but vatu rebelling. 


Nod o'er the ground-bird's bidden nest. 


If from earth we sought to flee ? 




'T is our stored and ample dwelling ; 


Tbou waitest late, and com'st alone, 


'T is from it the skies we see. 


"When woods are bare and birds are flown, 




And frosts and shortening days portend 


Wind and frost, and hour and season. 


The aged Year is near bis end. 


Land and water, sun and shade — 




Work with these, as bids thy reason, 


Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 


For they work thy toil to aid. 


Look through its fringes to the sky, 




Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 


Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness ! 


A flower from its cerulean wall. 


Man himself is aU a seed ; 




Hope and hardship, joy and sadness — 




Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 


I would that thus, when I shaU see 


JOSN STEBLIKa. 


The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 






May look to heaven as I depart. 




William Cullen Beyant. 


OOENFTELDS. 




When- on the breath of autumn breeze. 
From pastures dry and brown, 






Goes floating like an idle thought 


THE HUSBANDMAN 


The fair white thistle-down, 




then what joy to walk at will 


Eaeth, of man the bounteous mother. 


Upon the golden harvest hill ! 


Feeds him still with corn and wine ; 




He who best would aid a brother, 


What joy in dreamy ease to lie 


Shares with him these gifts divine. 


Amid a field new shorn, 




And see all round on sun-lit slopes 




The piled-up stacks of corn ; 


Many a power within her bosom. 


And send the fancy wandering o'er 


Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 


All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 


Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom. 




Golden ear and clustered wreath. 


I feel the day — I see the field. 




The quivering of the leaves. 


These to swell with strength and beauty 


And good old Jacob and his house 


Is the royal task of man ; 


Binding the yellow sheaves ; 


Man's a king ; his throne is duty, 


And at this very hour I seem 


Since his work on earth began. 


To be with Joseph in his dream. 


Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage — 


I see the fields of Bethlehem, 


These, like man, are fruits of earth ; 


And reapers many a one. 


Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, 


Bending unto their sickles' stroke — 


All from dust receive their birth. 


And Boaz looking on ; 




And Kuth, the Moabite so fair. 


Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures. 


Among the gleaners stooping there. 


Earthly goods for earthly lives— 




These are Nature's ancient pleasures ; 


Again I see a little child, 


These her child from her derives. 


His mother's sole delight, — 



96 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


God's living gift unto 


The last day spent with one 


The kind good Shunammite ; 


Who, ere the morrow's sun, 


To mortal pangs I see him yield, 


Must leave us, and for aye ? 


And the lad bear him from the field. 






precious, precious moments ! 


The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, 


Pale flowers ! ye 're types of those ; 
The saddest, sweetest, dearest. 


The fields of Galilee, 


Because, like those, the nearest 


That eighteen hundred years ago 


To an eternal close. 


Were full of corn, I see ; 




And the dear Saviour takes his way 


Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 


'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 


I woo your gentle breath — 




I leave the Summer rose 


golden fields of bending corn, 


For younger, blither brows ; 


How beautiful they seem I 


Tell me of change and death. 


The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves. 


Cakoltne Bowles Sottthbt. 


To me are like a dream. 




The sunshine and the very air 


^ 


Seem of old time, and take me there. 




Mary Howitt. 


THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest 






of the year. 


AUTUMN FLOWERS. 


Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 




meadows brown and sere. 


Those few pale Autumn flowers, 


Heaped in the hoUows of the grove, the au- 


How beautiful they are ! 


tumn leaves lie dead ; 


Th^n all that went before, 


They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 


Than all the Summer store, 


rabbit's tread. 


How lovelier far ! 


The robin and the wren are flown, and from 




the shrubs the jay, 


And why ? — They are the last ! 


A nd from the wood-top calls the crow through 


The last ! the last ! the last I 


aU the gloomy day. 


Oh ! by that little word 




How many thoughts are stirred 


Where are the flowers, the fair young flow- 


That whisper of the past ! 


ers that lately sprang and stood 




In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous 


Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 


sisterhood ? 


Ye 're types of precious things ; 


Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle 


Types of those bitter moments, 


race of flowers 


That flit, like life's* enjoyments, 


Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair 


On rapid, rapid wings : 


and good of ours. 




The rain is falling where they lie ; but the 


Last hours with parting dear ones, 


cold November rain 


(That Time the fastest spends) 


Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 


Last tears in silence shed. 


ones again. 


Last words half uttered, 




Last looks of dying friends. 


The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 




ished long ago, 


"WTio but would fain compress 


And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid 


A life into a day, — 


the summer glow ; 



AUTUMN. 97 


But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 


I'll not leave thee, thou lone on3, 


in the wood, 


To pine on the stem ; 


And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in 


Since the lovely are sleeping, 


autumn beauty stood. 


Go, sleep thou with them. 


Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 


Thus kindly I scatter 


as falls the plague on men, 


Thy leaves o 'er the bed 


And the brightness of their smile was gone, 


Where thy mates of the garden 


from upland, glade, and glen. 


Lie scentless and dead. 


And now, when comes the calm mild day, as 


So soon may I follow. 


still such days will come. 


When friendships decay. 


To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 


And fram Love's shining circle 


winter home ; 


The gems drop away ! 


When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 


When true hearts lie withered. 


though all the trees are still. 


And fond ones are flown. 


And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 


Oh ! who would inhabit 


oftheriU, 


This bleak world alone ? 


The south wind searches for the flowers 


Thomas M oee. 


whose fragrance late he bore. 




And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
the stream no more. 






And then I think of one who in her youthful 


THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 


beauty died. 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
J? J J 1 • 1 


At, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 
Were never stained with village smoke ; 


faded by my side. 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the 

forests cast the leaf. 
And we wept that one so lovely should have 

a life so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that 

young friend of ours. 


The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 

Here, with my rifle and my steed. 
And her who left the world for me, 

I plant me where the red deer feed 
In the green desert — and am free. 


So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with 
the flowers. 


For here the fair savannas know 


William Oullen Beyant. 


No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow. 




Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 


« 


In pastures, measureless as air, 




The bison is my noble game ; 




The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 


'TIS THE LAST EOSE OF SUMMER. 


The branches, falls before my aim. 


'T IS the last rose of Summer 


Mine are the river-fowl that scream 


Left blooming alone ; 


From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 


All her lovely companions 


The bear that marks my weapon's gleam 


Are faded and gone ; 


Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 


No flower of her kindred, 


In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 


No rosebud is nigh, 


The brinded catamount, that lies 


To reflect back her blushes. 


High in the boughs to watch his prey, 


Or give sigh for sigh ! 

7 


Even in the act of springing dies. 



98 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



With what free growth the elm and phane 

Fling their huge arms across my way — 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

Ko taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here — 

With roaring like the battle's sound. 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain. 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past 

Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
The boundless Future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass. 
And trains the bordering vines whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams — ^my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide : 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 

WlLLIAil CULLEN BeTAKT. 



Farewell to the mountains high covered with 

snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys 

below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 

woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 

floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

EOBEET BXJKNS. 



MY HEART'S m THE HIGHLAITDS. 

My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valor, the country of worth; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 



THE HUNTER'S SONG. 

Rise ! Sleep no more ! 'T is a noble morn. 
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, 
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten 

hound. 
Under the steaming, steaming ground, 
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, 
'And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 
Our horses are ready and steady. — So, ho ! 
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 
£[arJcj Tiarlc ! — Who calletTi the maiden Morn 
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble 

corn ? 

The horn^ — the horn ! 
The merry ^ sweet ring of tJie hunter'^s horn. 

Now, through the copse where the fox is 

found, 
And over the stream at a mighty bound, 
And over the high lands, and over the low. 
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go ! 
Away ! — as a hawk flies full at his prey, 
So flieth the hunter, away, — away! 
From the burst at the cover till set of sun. 
When the red fox dies, and — the day is done ! 
Ear\ harTc !— What sound on the wind is 

borne f 
''T is the conquering voice of the hunter'* s horn : 

The horn^ — the horn ! 
The merry ^ bold voice of the hunter'^s horn. 



AUTUMN. 



Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter good 
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood? 
Eight over he hounds, as the wild stag hounds, 
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 
O, what delight can a mortal lack. 
When he once is firm on his horse's hack. 
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, 
And the hlast of the horn for his morning 

song ? 
Kar\ harlc! — ITow, home! and dream till 

morn 
Of the l)old^ sweet sound of tlie Jiunter^s horn! 

The horn^ — the horn ! 
0^ the sound of all sounds is the hunter'' s horn! 

BaEEY COBirWALL. 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close hosom-friend of the maturing sun! 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch- 
eaves run — 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, 
And fill aU fruit with ripeness to the core — 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 
shells 
With a sweet kernel — to set budding, more 
And stUl more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until thej think warm days will never cease. 
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their 
clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while 
thy hook 
Spares the next swath and aU its twined 
flowers ; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by 
hours. 



Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where 
are they ? 
Think not of them — ^thou hast thy music 
too: 
WhUe barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking, as the hght wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hUly 
bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble 

soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft. 
And gathering swallows twitter in the 
skies. 

JoH2<- Keats, 



AUTUMIT— A DIKGE. 

The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind is 

wailing ; 
The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers 
are dying ; 

And the Year 
On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of 
leaves dead. 

Is lying. 
Come, months, come away, 
From IlTovember to May ; 
In your saddest array. 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
Ana like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling ; the nipt worm is 

crawling ; 
The rivers are swelling ; the thunder is knell- 
ing 

For the Year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards 
each gone 

To his dwelling ; 
Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black, and gray ; 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 

Peecy Btsshe Shellet 



100 POEMS OF 


NATURE. 


AUTUMK 


AUTUMN'S SIGHING. 


The Autumti is old ; 


Autumn's sighing. 


The sere leaves are flying ; 


Moaning, dying ; 


He hath gathered up gold, 


Clouds are flying 


And now he is dying : 


On like steeds ; 


Old age, begin sighing ! 


While their shadows 




O'er the meadows 


The vintage is ripe ; 
The harvest is heaping ; 


Walk like widows 
Decked in weeds. 


But some that have sowed 


Red leaves trailing, 


Have no riches for reaping : — 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! 


Fall unfailing. 
Dropping, sailing, 




From the wood, 


The year's in the wane; 


That, unpliant, 


There is nothing adorning ; 


Stands defiant, 


The night has no eve, 


Like a giant 


And the day has no morning ; 


Dropping blood. 


Cold winter gives warning. 






Winds are swelling 


The rivers run chill ; 


Round our dwelling. 


The red sun is sinking; 


All day telling 


And I am grown old, 


Us their woe ; ■ 


And life is fast shrinking ; 


And at vesper 


Here's enow for sad thinking ! 


Frosts grow crisper, 


Thomas Hoob. 


As they whisper 




Of the snow. 
From th' unseen land 


♦ 


THE LATTER EAIK 


Frozen inland. 




Down from Greenland 


The latter rain,— it falls in anxious haste 


Winter glides. 
Shedding lightness 


Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, 


Loosening with searching drops the rigid 


Like the brightness 


waste 


When moon- whiteness 


As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 


Fills the tides. 


But not a blade grows green as in the Spring ; 




N'o swelling twig puts forth its thickening 


Now bright Pleasure's 


leaves ; 


Sparkling measures 


The robins only mid the harvests sing. 


With rare treasures 


Pecking the grain that scatters from the 


Overflow ! 


sheaves ; 


With this gladness 


The rain falls still, — the fruit all ripened 


Comes what sadness ! 


drojps. 


Oh, what madness ! 


It pierces chestnut-burr and waJnut-shell ; 


Oh, what woe 1 


The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ; 




Each bursting pod of talents used can tell; 


Even merit 


And all that once received the early rain 


May inherit 


Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 


Some bare garret. 


Jones Veby. 


Or the ground ; 



GRONGAR HILL. 



101 



Or, a worse ill, 
Beg a morsel 
At some door sill, 
Like a hound ! 

Storms are trailing ; 
Winds are wailing, 
Howling, railing 

At each door, 
^idst this trailing, 
Howling, railing, 
List the wailing 

Of the poor ! 

Thomas Btjohanan Reab. 



THE IVY GREEN". 

On! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeth o 'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones de- 
cayed. 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mould 'ring dust that years have 
made 
Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
wings. 
And a staunch old heart has he ! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend, the huge oak tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

"Whole ages have fled, and their works de- 
cayed. 

And nations scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 



The brave old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

CHAKLE8 Dickens. 



ISrOYEMBER. 

The mellow year is hasting to its close ; 
The little birds have almost sung their last. 
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ; 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose. 
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly 



Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 
And makes a little summer where it grows. 
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 

Hartley Colbeidgb. 



GRONOAR HILL. 

Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 
Who, the purple evening, lie 
On the mountain's lonely van. 
Beyond the noise of busy man — 
Painting fair the form of things, 
While the yellow linnet sings. 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale — 
Come, with all thy various hues. 
Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 
Now, while Phoebus, riding high, 
Gives lustre to the land and sky, 
Grongar Hill invites my song — 
Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 
Grongar, in whose mossy cells 
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
Grongar, in whose silent shade. 
For the modest Muses made, 



102 POEMS or 


NATURE. 


So oft I have, the evening still, 


His sides are clothed with waving wood ; 


At the fountain of a rill. 


And ancient towers crown his brow, 


Sat upon a flowerj bed. 


That cast an awful look below ; 


"With my hand beneath mj head. 


Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 


While strayed my eyes o 'er Towy's flood. 


An^ with her arms from falling keeps ; 


Over mead and over wood. 


So both, a safety from the wind 


From house to house, from hill to hill, 


On mutual dependence find. 


Till Contemplation had her fill. 


'T is now the raven's bleak abode ; 


About his checkered sides I wind. 


'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ; 


And leave his brooks and meads behind. 


And there the fox securely feeds; 


And groves and grottoes where I lay, 


And there the poisonous adder breeds, 


And vistas shooting beams of day. 


Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 


Wide and wider spreads the vale, 


While, ever and anon, there fall 


As circles on a smooth canal. 


Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall. 


The mountains round, unhappy fate ! 


Yet Time has seen — that lifts the low. 


Sooner or later, of all height, . 


And level lays the lofty brow — 


Withdi-aw their summits from the skies, 


Has seen this broken pile complete, 


And lessen as the others rise. 


Big with the vanity of state. 


Still the prospect wider spreads. 


But transient is the smile of Fate ! 


Adds a thousand woods and meads ,• 


A little rule, a little sway. 


Still it widens, widens still. 


A sunbeam in a winter's day, 


And sinks the newly-risen hill. 


Is all the proud and mighty have 


Now I gain the mountain's brow ; 


Between the cradle and the grave. 


What a landscape lies below ! 


And see the rivers, how they run 


]^o clouds, no vapors intervene ; 


Through woods and meads, in shade and sun : 


But the gay, the open scene 


Sometimes swift, sometimes slow — 


Does the face of Nature show 


Wave succeeding wave, they go 


In all the hues of heaven's bow ! 


A various journey to the deep. 


And, swelling to embrace the light, 


Like human life to endless sleep ! 


Spreads around beneath the sight. 


Thus is Nature's vesture wrought 


Old castles on the cliffs arise. 


To instruct our wandering thought ; 


Proudly tow 'ring in the skies ; 


Thus she dresses green and gay 


Eushing from the woods, the spires 


To disperse our cares away. 


Seem from hence ascending fires ; 


Ever charming, ever new, 


Half his beams Apollo sheds 


When will the landscape tire the view ! 


On the yellow mountain-heads 


The fountain's faU, the river's flow ; 


Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. 


The woody valleys, warm and low ; 


And glitters on the broken rocks. 


The windy summit, wild and high. 


Below me trees unnumbered rise, 


Eoughly rushing on the sky ; 


Beautiful in various dyes : 


The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 


The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 


The naked rock, the shady bower ; 


The yellow beech, the sable yew. 


The town and village, dome and farm — 


The slender fir that taper grows. 


Each gives each a double charm. 


The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ; 


As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 


And beyond, the purple grove. 


See on the mountain's southern side. 


Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 


Where the prospect opens wide. 


Gaudy as the opening dawn, 


Where the evening gilds the tide, 


Lies a long and level lawn, 


How close and small the hedges lie ; 


On which a dark hill, steep and high, 


What streaks of meadow cress the eye I 


Holds and charms the wandering eye ; 


A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 


Deep are his feet in Towy's flood : 


So little distant dangers seem ; 



EVENING. 



103 



So we mistake tlie Future's face, 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 
As you summits, soft and fair, 
Olad in colors of the air, 
Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
Still we tread the same coarse way — 
The present 's still a cloudy day. 

O may I with myself agree. 
And never covet what I see ; 
Content me with an humble shade, 
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
For while our wishes wildly roll, 
"We banish quiet from the soul. 
'T is thus the busy beat the air. 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, even now, my joys run high, 
As on the mountain turf I lie ; 
While the wanton Zephyr sings, 
And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters murmur deep ; 
While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
While the birds unbounded fly. 
And with music fill the sky, 
iTow, even now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 
Search for Peace with all your skill ; 
Open wide the lofty door, 
Seek her on the marble floor. 
In vain you search ; she is not here ! 
In vain you search the domes of Care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
On the meads and mountain-heads. 
Along with Pleasure — close allied, 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the murmuring rill. 
Hears the thrush, while all is still 
Within the gi'oves of Grongar Hill. 

John Dyer. 



FOLDING THE FLOCKS. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair. 
Fold your flocks up ; for the air 
'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
Already his great course hath run. 
See the dew-drops, how they kiss 
Every little flower that is : 



Hanging on their velvet heads, 

Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling. 

And bright Hesperus down calling 

The dead night from under ground ; 

At whose rising, mists unsound, 

Damps and vapors, fly apace, 

And hover o 'er the smiling face 

Of these pastures ; where they come. 

Striking dead both bud and bloom. 

Therefore from such danger lock 

Every one his loved flock ; 

And let your dogs lie loose without, 

Lest the wolf come as a scout 

From the mountain, and ere day, 

Bear a lamb or kid away ; 

Or the crafty, thievish fox, 

Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these. 

Be not too secure in ease ; 

So shall you good shepherds prove. 

And deserve your master's love. 

Now, good night ! may sweetest slumbers 

And soft silence fall in numbers 

On your eyelids. So farewell : 

Thus I end my evening knell. 

Beaijmont and Fletchek. 



BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes fly- 
ing : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes — dying, dying, 
dying ! 

O hark, hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, further going ! 
O sweet and far, from clifi" and scar. 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow ! let us hear the purple glens reply- 
ing: 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes — dying, dying, 
dying ! 



104 



POEMS OF NATUKE. 



love, they die in yon rich sky ; 

They faint on hill or field or river : 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow for ever and for ever. 

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying, 

And answer, echoes, answer — dying, dying, 

dying! 

Alfeed Tennyson. 



THE EVEOTITG WmD. 

Spieit that breathest through my lattice ! thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my 
brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
Eiding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Eoughening their crests, and scattering 
high their spray, ' 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the 
sea! 



Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 

And languishing to hear thy welcome sound. 
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the 
sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth — 

God's blessing breathed upon the fainting 
earth! 



Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 
Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and 
rouse 
The wide, old wood from Ms majestic rest, 

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs. 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his 
breast. 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly 
bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And where the overshadowing branches sweep 
the GT'" . 



Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; 

That they who near the churchyard willows 
stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, 

May think of gentle souls that passed away, 
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of 
men. 

And gone into the boundless heaven again. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child 
asleep. 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows 
more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, gratefal to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty 
range, 
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once 
more. 
Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange. 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the 
shore ; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 
William Ctxllen Beyant. 



EVENING. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That roUest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below. 
Through all the dewy-tasselled wood. 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples — fan my brows and blow 



EVENING. 



105 



The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

III brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas, 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where, in yonder orient star, 

A hundred spirits whisper "Peace ! " 

Alfeed Tenktson. 



ODE TO EYENmG. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song. 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest 
ear, 
Like thy own brawling springs. 
Thy springs, and dying gales — 

O N"ymph reserved, while now the bright- 
haired Sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts. 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed. 

N"ow air is hushed, save where the weak- 
eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern 
wing; 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but suUen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 
I^ow teach me, maid composed. 
To breathe some softened strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark- 
ening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and elves 

Who slept in buds the day. 



And many a nymph who wreathes her brows 

with sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew ; and, lovelier 
still, 
The pensive pleasures sweet. 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy 

scene ; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
That, from the mountain's side, 
Yiews wilds, and swelling floods. 

And hamlets brown, and dim discovered 

spires ; 
And hears their simple beU, and marks o'er 
all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft 

he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While saUow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

AflMghts thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smUing 
Peace, 
Thy gentlest influence own, 
And love thy favorite name ! 

William Collins. 



TO THE EYENmG STAK. 

Stab that bringest home the bee. 
And sett'st the weary laborer free I 
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou. 

That send'st it from above. 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love. 



106 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Come to the luxuriant skies, 
"Whilst the landscape's odors rise, 
Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard, 

And songs when toil is done. 
From cottages whose smoke unstirred 

Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews, 
Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art. 
Too delicious to be riven, 

By absence, from the heart. 

Thomas Campbell. 



EYENrnG IN THE ALPS. 

Come, golden Evening ! in the west 

Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun. 
And let the triple rainbow rest 

O'er all the mountain-tops. 'Tis done ;- 
The tempest ceases ; bold and bright. 

The rainbow shoots from hill to hill ; 
Down sinks the sun ; on presses night ; — 

Mont Blanc is lovely still ! 

There take thy stand, my spirit ; — spread 

The world of shadows at thy feet ; 
And mark how calmly, overhead. 

The stars, like saints in glory, meet. 
While hid in solitude sublime, 

Methinks I muse on N"ature's tomb. 
And hear the passing foot of Time 

Step through the silent gloom. 

All in a moment, crash on crash, 

From precipice to precipice 
An avalanche's ruins dash 

Down to the nethermost abyss, 
Invisible ; the ear alone 

Pursues the uproar till it dies ; 
Echo to echo, groan for groan, 

From deep to deep replies. 

Silence again the darkness seals, 
Darkness that may be felt ; — but soon 

The silver-clouded east reveals 
The midnight spectre of the moon. 



In half-eclipse she lifts her horn. 
Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme 

Brings the faint semblance of a morn. 
With her awakening beam. 

Ah ! at her touch, these Alpine heights 

Unreal mockeries appear ; 
With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights. 

Emerging as she climbs the sphere ; 
A crowd of apparitions pale ! 

I hold my breath in chill suspense — 
They seem so exquisitely frail — 

Lest they should vanish hence. 

I breathe again, I freely breathe ; 

Thee, Leman's Lake, once more I trace, 
Like Dian's crescent far beneath, 

As beautiful as Dian's face : 
Pride of the land that gave me birth ! 

All that thy waves reflect I love. 
Where heaven itself, brought down to earth, 

Looks fairer than above. 

Safe on thy banks again I stray ; 

The trance of poesy is o'er. 
And I am here at dawn of day. 

Gazing on mountains as before. 
Where all the strange mutations wrought 

Were magic feats of my own mind ; 
For, in that fairy land of thought, 

Whate'er I seek, I find. 

Yet, O ye everlasting hills ! 

Buildings of God, not made with hands, 
Whose word performs whate'er He wiUs, 

Whose w^ord, though ye shall perish, stands ; 
Can there be eyes that look on you. 

Till tears of rapture make them dim, 
Nor in his w^orks the Maker view. 

Then lose his works in Him ? 

By me, when I behold Him not. 

Or love Him not when I behold, 
Be all I ever knew^ fo^'got — 

My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold ; 
Transformed to ice, 'twixt earth and sky, 

On yonder cliff my form be seen. 
That all may ask, but none reply. 

What my offence hath been. 

James Montgomeet. 



MOONRISE. 



107 



TO CYNTHIA. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair. 
State in wonted manner keep: 

Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close; 
Bless us, then, with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 

Give unto thy flying hart 
Space to breathe, how short soever; 

Thou that makest a day of night. 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Ben Jonson. 



MOONKISE. 

"What stands upon the highland ? 

What walks across the rise, 
As though a starry island 

Were sinking down the skies ? 

What makes the trees so golden ? 

What decks the mountain side. 
Like a veil of silver folden 

Eound the white brow of a bride ? 

The magic moon is breaking. 
Like a conqueror, from the east. 

The waiting world awaking 
To a golden fairy feast. 

She works, with touch ethereal. 
By changes strange to see. 

The cypress, so fnaereal. 
To a lightsome fairy tree ; 

Black rocks to marble turning. 

Like palaces of kings ; 
On ruin windows burning, 

A festal glory flings ; 



The desert halls uplighting, 
While falling shadows glance. 

Like courtly crowds uniting 
For the banquet or the dance ; 

With ivory wand she numbers 

The stars along the sky ; 
And breaks the billows' slumbers 

With a love glance of her eye ; 

Along the cornfields dances. 
Brings bloom upon the sheaf; 

From tree to tree she glances. 
And touches leaf by leaf; 

Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; 

Thro' their half-closed eyelids gleams ; 
With her white torch thro' the meadows 

Lights the shy deer to the streams. 

The magic moon is breaking, 
Like a conqueror, from the east, 

And the joyous world partaking 
Of her golden fairy feast. 

Eenest Jones. 



SONNET. 

The crimson Moon, uprising from the sea. 
With large delight foretells the harvest near. 
Ye shepherds, now prepare your melody. 
To greet the soft appearance of her sphere ! 

And like a page, enamored of her train. 
The star of evening glimmers in the west : 
Then raise, ye shepherds, your observant 

strain, 
That so of the Great Shepherd here are blest ! 

Our fields are full with the time-ripened grain, 
Our vineyards with the purple clusters swell ; 
Her golden splendor glimmers on the main, 
And vales and mountains her bright glory 

tell. 
Then sing, ye shepherds ! for the time is come 
When we must bring the enriched harvest 

home. 

LoED Thtjrlo-w. 



108 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



TO THE HAEVEST MOOK 

Cum ruit imbriferum ver: 
Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. 

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 

YlKGIL. 

Moon of Harvest, herald mild 

Of Plenty, rustic labor's child. 

Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 

As soft it trembles o'er the stream. 

And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide, 

"Where Innocence and Peace reside ! 

'T is thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic 
throng. 

Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarat- 
ing song. 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove, 

"While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky, 
Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on 
thy way. 

Pleasing 't is, oh ! modest Moon ! 
Now the night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
"While around the zephyrs sigh. 
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, 
Eipened by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
"When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon. 

Oh, modest Moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road, 

To see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest-home. 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains, 
Stern despoilers of the plains. 
Hence, away, the season flee, 
Foes to light-heart jollity ! 



May no winds careering high 

Drive the clouds along the sky, 
But may all Nature smile with aspect boon, 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, 
oh Harvest Moon ! 

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies. 
The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes : 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, 
And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy 
blustering whirlwind spare. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo ; 

Press ye still the downy bed, 

"While feverish dreams surround your head; 

I will seek the woodland glade. 

Penetrate the thickest shade, 

"Wrapped in Contemplation's dreams. 

Musing high on holy themes. 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune, 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 

Heney Kieke ■White. 



NIGHT SONG. 

The moon is up in splendor, 
Ajid golden stars attend her ,• 

The heavens are calm and bright ; 
Trees cast a deepening shadow. 
And slowly off the meadow 

A mist is rising silver- white. 

Night's curtains now are closing 
'Round half a world reposing 

In calm and holy trust. 
All seems one vast, stiU chamber, 
Where weary hearts remember 

No more the sorrows of the dust. 

Matthias CLAUDins. (German.) 
Translation of C. T. Brooks. 



THE 


OWL. 109 




— when the moon shines^ and dogs do howl^ 


TO NIGHT. 


Then^ then, is the joy of the Eorned Owl! 


Mtstebious Night! when our first parent 


Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy phght ; 


knew 


The Owl hath his share of good : 


Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 


If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, 


Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 


He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 


This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 


Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate — 


Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, 


They are each unto each a pride ; 


Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 


Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange, dark 


Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 


fate 


And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 


Hath rent them from all beside ! 


"Who could have thought such darkness lay 


So, when the nightfalls, and dogs do howl, 


concealed 


Sing Ho ! for the reign of the Horned Owl ! 


Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could find, 


We Tcnow not alway 


While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed. 


Who are Icings ly day, 


That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us 


But the King ff the night is the told Irown 


blind! 


Owl! 


Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious 


Babry Coknwall. 


strife ?— 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? 






Blanco White. 






SONG.— TFF, OWL. 
When- cats run home and light is come, 




THE OWL. 


And dew is cold upon the ground, 




And the far-off stream is dumb, 


In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, 


And the whirring sail goes round. 


The spectral Owl doth dwell ; 


And the whirring sail goes round ; 


Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, 


Alone and warming his five wits. 


But at dusk he's abroad and well ! 


The white owl in the belfry sits. 


Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him — 




All mock him outright, by day ; 


When merry milkmaids click the latcli, 


But at night, when the woods grow stiU and 


And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 


dim, 


And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 


The boldest will shrink away ! 


Twice or thrice his roundelay, 


0^ when the nightfalls^ and roosts thefow\ 


Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 


Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl ! 


Alone and warming his five wits. 




The white owl in the belfry sits. 


And the Owl hath a bride who is fond and 
bold, 
And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; 




SECOND SONG — TO THE SAME. 


And, with eyes like the shine of the moon- 




stone cold, 


Thy tuwhits are lulled, I wot. 


She awaiteth her ghastly groom. 


Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 


Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, 


Which, upon the dark afloat. 


As she waits in her tree so still. 


So took echo with delight. 


But when her heart heareth his flapping 


So took echo with delight, 


wings, 


That her voice, untuneful grown, 


She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 


Wears all day a fainter tone. 



110 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



I would mock thy channt anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a wliit of thy tuAvhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthened loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 

Alfeed TeIvNYSON. 



In the golden light of May, 
Bringing scents of new-mowm hay, 
Bees, and birds, and flowers away : 
Prithee, haunt my fireside still. 
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill ! 

"William C. Benitett. 



THE CKICKET. 



THE OWL. 


Little inmate, full of mirth, 




Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 


While the moon, with sudden gleam, 


Wheresoe'er be thine abode 


Through the clouds that cover her, 


Always harbinger of good, 


Darts her light upon the stream. 


Pay me for thy warm retreat 


And the poplars gently ^ir ; 


With a song more soft and sweet ; 


Pleased I hear thy boding cry, 


In return thou shalt receive 


Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky ! 


Such a strain as I can give. 


Sure thy notes are harmony. 






Thus thy praise shall be expressed. 




Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 


While the maiden, pale with care, 


While the rat is on the scout. 


Wanders to the lonely shade. 


And the mouse with curious snout, 


Sighs her sorrows to the air. 


With what vermin else infest 


While the flowerets round her fade, — 


Every dish, and spoil the best ; 


Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ; 


Frisking thus before the fire, 


Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky, 


Thou hast all thine heart's desire. 


To her it is not harmony. 






Though in voice and shape they be 


While the wretch, with mournful dole, 


Formed as if akin to thee, 


Wrings his hands in agony. 


Thou surpassest, happier far. 


Praying for his brother's soul, 


Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 


Whom he pierced suddenly, — 


Theirs is but a summer's song — 


Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ; 
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky. 


Thine endures the winter long. 
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 


To him it is not harmony. 


Melody throughout the year. 




William Cowpee. 


AXONYMOTJS. 




TO A CPvICKET. 


THE DEPAETUEE OF THE SWALLOW. 




And is the swallow gone ? 


Voice of Summer, keen and shrill. 


Who beheld it ? 


Chirping round my winter fire. 


Which way sailed it ? 


Of thy song I never tire, 


Farewell bade it none ? 


Weary others as they will ; 




For thy song with Summer's filled — 


No mortal saw it go : — 


Filled with sunshine, filled with June ; 


But who doth hear 


Firelight echo of that noon 


Its summer cheer 


Hears in fields when all is stilled 


As it flitteth to and fro ? 



I 



WINTER FANCIES. 



Ill 



So the freed spirit flies ! 

From its surrounding clay 

It steals away 
Like the swallow from the skies. 

Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 

'T is all unknown ; 

We feel alone 
That a void is left below. 

"William Howitt. 



FANCY. 

Ever let the Fancy roam ; 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her ; 

Open wide the mind's cage-door — 

She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ! 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming. 

Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting. What do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the Mght doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overawed. 

Fancy, high-commissioned : — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her ; 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; — 

She will bring thee, all together. 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth ; — 

With a still, mysterious stealth ; 



She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it, — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear — 

Eustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

'T is the early April lark, — 

Or the rooks, with busy caw. 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep ; 

And the snake, all winter-thin, 

Cast on surmy bank its skin ; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest ; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 

Acorns ripe down-pattering 

While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ! 
Every thing is spoilt by use ; 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Where 's the eye, however blue. 
Doth not weary ? Where 's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where 's the voice, however soft. 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as jJeres' daughter 
Ere the god of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 



112 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Fell her kirtle to her feet, 

While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she '11 bring. — 

Let the winged Fancy roam; 

Pleasure never is at home. 

John Keats. 



THE WINDY NIGHT. 

Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
How the midnight tempests howl ! 
With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon ; 

Or whistle and shriek 

Through limbs that creak, 

"Tu-who! Tu-whit!" 

They cry, and flit, 
" Tu-whit ! Tu-who ! " like the solemn owl ! 

Alow and aloof. 

Over the roof. 
Sweep the moaning winds amain. 

And wildly dash 

The elm and ash. 
Clattering on the window sash 

With a clatter and patter 

Like hail and rain. 

That well nigh shatter 

The dusky pane ! 

Alow and aloof. 

Over the roof. 
How the tempests swell and roar ! 

Though no foot is astir, 

Though the cat and the cur 
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 

There are feet of air 

On every stair — 

Through every halll 

Through each gusty door 

There's a jostle and bustle, 

With a silken rustle. 
Like the meeting of guests at a festival ! 



Alow and aloof. 

Over the roof. 
How the stormy tempests swell ! 

And make the vane 

On the spire complain ; 
They heave at the steeple with might and main, 

And burst and sweep 

Into the belfry, on the bell I 
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 

That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, 
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell ! 
Thomas Bttchanan Eead. 



THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 

Mouenfullt! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth sigh. 
Like some sweet, plaintive melody 

Of ages long gone by ! 
It speaks a tale of other years, — 

Of hopes that bloomed to die, — 
Of sunny smiles that set in tears. 

And loves that mouldering lie! 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth moan ! 
It stirs some chord of memory 

In each duU, heavy tone ; 
The voices of the much-loved dead 

Seem floating thereupon, — 
All, all my fond heart cherished 

Ere death had made it lone. 



Mournfully ! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth swell 
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy,— 

Hope's passionate farewell 
To the dneamy joys of early years. 

Ere yet grief's canker fell 
On the heart's bloom, — ay ! well may tears 

Start at that parting knell ! 

William MotheewelI/. 



WINTER 



113 



FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 

The frost performs its secret ministrj, 
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came lond — and hark again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
Have left me to that solitude which suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs 
And vexes meditation with its strange 
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 
This populous village !— sea, and hill, and wood, 
With all the numberless goings on of life 
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate. 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks its motion in this hush of Nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
Making it a companionable form. 
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 
By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
And makes a toy of thought. 

But ! how oft. 
How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars 
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft, 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church- 
tower. 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my 

dreams ! 
And so I brooded all the following morn, 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fixed with mocked study on my swimming 

book — 
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
A hasty glance ; and still my heart leaped up, 
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My playmate when we both were clothed 
alike ! 

8 



Dear babe, tjiat sleepest cradled by my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep 

calm. 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
And in far other scenes! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountains, and beneath the clouds. 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and 

shores 
And mountain crags. So shalt thou see and 

hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee : 
Whether the Summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eve- 
drops fall. 
Heard only in the trances of the blast. 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
Quietly shining to the quiet moon. 

Samttel Taylor Coleeidgk 



BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTEE WIND. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind — 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green 

holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 
folly; 



114 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky — 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ; 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green 

holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 

foUy; 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly ! 



THE HOLLY TKEE. 

EEADEE ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly tree? 
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves 
appear. 

1 love to view these things with, curious eyes. 

And moralise ; 
And in this wisdom of the holly tree 

Can emblems see 
"Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant 

rhyme. 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might 
appear 

Harsh and austere — 
To those who on my leisure would intrude. 

Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be. 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 



And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, 

Some harshness show. 
All vain asperities, I, day by day. 

Would wear away, 
TiU the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The holly leaves their fadeless hues display 

Less bi*lght than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see. 
What then so cheerful as the holly tree ? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem, amid the young and gay. 

More grave than they ; 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green, winter of the holly tree. 

EOBEET SOTJIIHEY. 



TO A PINE TREE. 

Fae up on Katahdin thou towerest, 
Purple-blue with the distance, and vast ; 

Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest, 
That hangs poised on a lull in the blast. 
To its faU leaning awful. 

In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened. 
Thou singest and tossest thy branches ; 

Thy heart with the terror is gladdened ; 
Thou forebodest the dread avalanches 
When whole mountains swoop valeward. 

In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys 
With thine arms, as if blessings imploring. 

Like an old king led forth from his palace, 
When his people to battle are pouring 
From the city beneath him. 

To the lumberer asleep 'neatli thy glooming 
Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion. 

Till he longs to be swung 'mid their booming 
In the tents of the Arabs of ocean, 
Whose finned isles are their cattle. 



WINTEE. 



115 



For the Gale snatches thee for his lyre, 
With mad hand crashing melody frantic, 

While he pours forth his mighty desire 
To leap down on the eager Atlantic, 
Whose arms stretch to his playmate. 

The wild Storm makes his lair in thy branches, 
And thence preys on the continent -under; 

Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches. 
There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder, 
Growling low with impatience. 

Spite of Winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, 
Lusty father of Titans past number! 

The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, 
Nestling close to thy branches in slumber. 
And thee mantling with silence. 

Thou alone know'st the splendor of Winter, 
'Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices. 

Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter. 
And then plunge down the muffled abysses 
In the quiet of midnight. 

Thou alone know'st the glory of Summer, 

Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest — 
On thy subjects, that send a proud murmur 
Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest 
From thy bleak throne to heaven. 

James Ettssell Lowell. 



WOODS m WINTER. 

Whei^ winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows the gale. 

With solemn feet I tread the hill 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods. 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak. 
The summer vine in beauty clung. 

And summer winds the stillness broke, — 
The crystal icicle is hung. 



Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide, 

ShriUy the skater's iron rings 
And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene 
When birds sang out their mellow lay. 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 

But still, wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord. 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 

Henky Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



TO A WINTER WIND. 

LoTJD wind ! strong wind ! blowing from the 
mountains ; 

Fresh wind! free wind! sweeping o'er the 
sea. 

Pour forth thy vials like torrents from air- 
fountains. 

Draughts of life to me ! 

Clear wind ! cold wind ! like a northern giant, 

Stars brightly threading all thy cloud-driven 
hair, 

Thrilling the blank night with a voice de- 
fiant — 

I will meet thee there ! 

Wild wind ! bold wind ! like a stronsr-armed 



Clasp me round ! — ^kiss me with thy kisses 

divine ! 
Breathe in my dulled heart thy secret, sweet 

evangel, — 
Mine, and only mine ! 

Fierce wind ! mad wind ! howling through 

the nations ! 
Knew'st thou leapeth that heart as +i-oii 

sweep 'st by 



116 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Ah! thou would 'st pause awhile in gentle 

patience, 
Like a human sigh ! 

Sharp wind ! keen wind ! piercing as word- 
arrows, 

Empty thy quiver-full ! Pass on! what is't 
to thee, 

Though in some bui*ning eyes life's whole 
bright circle narrows 

To one misery ? 

Loud wind! strong wind! stay thou in the 

mountains ; 
Fresh wind ! free wind ! trouble not the sea ! 
Or lay thy freezing hand upon my heart's 

wild fountains 
That I hear not thee ! 

ANONYMOtrS. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 

heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's 

feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates 

sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
Li a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door ; 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage ; nought cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the 

world 
Is all his own, retiring as he were not, 



Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone. 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work. 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 

Ealph Waldo Emeesok. 



WINTER SONG. 

Summer joys are o 'er ; 

Flowerets bloom no more ; 
Wintry winds are sweeping ; 
Through the snow-drifts, peeping. 

Cheerful evergreen 

Rarely now is seen. 

Now no plumed throng 
Charms the wood with song ; 

Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 

Merry snow-birds, twittering, 
Fondly strive to cheer 
Scenes so cold and drear. 

Winter, still I see 
Many charms in thee — 
Love thy chilly greeting. 
Snow-storms fiercel}^ beating. 
And the dear delights 
Of the long, long nights. 

Lfdwig Holtt, (German.) 
Translation of C. T. Beooks. 



SONNET 

TO A BIED THAT HAUNTED THE WATEES OF 
LAAKEN m THE WINTEE. 

MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day 

Thou standest by the margin of the pool. 
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being 
school 

To patience, which all evil can allay. 

God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, 
And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 

And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 
There need not schools nor the professor's 
chair, 

Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : 
He who has not enough for these to spare, 



WINTER. 



m 



Of time or gold, may yet amend Ms heart, 
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers 
fair — 
Nature is always wise in every part. 

LoED Thttelo-w. 



TO THE EEDBREAST. 

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early 

hours 
Of winters past or coming, void of care. 
"Well pleased with delights which present are, 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling 

flowers — 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy 

bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and 

wrongs. 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to 

Heaven ! 
Sweet, artless songster ! thou my mind dost 

raise 
To au's of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays. 
William Detjmmond. 



AETERNOON m FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending 
The night is descending; 
The marsh is frozen. 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 
The road o'er the plain; 



While through the meadows. 
Like fearful shadows. 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is peahng, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 

Hestey Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. 

When" the merry lark doth gild 

With his song the summer hours. 
And their nests the swallows build 

In the roofs and tops of towers, 
And the golden broom-flower burns 

All about the waste, 
And the maiden May returns 

With a pretty haste, — 

TJien^ how merry are the times J 
The Bummer times I the Spring 

Now, from off the ashy stone 

The chilly midnight cricket crieth, 
And all merry birds are flown. 

And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
Now the once blue, laughing sky 

Saddens into gray. 
And the frozen rivers sigh. 

Pining all away I 
Now^ how solemn are the times ! 
The Winter times I the Night times ! 

Yet, be merry : all around 

Is through one vast change revolving: 
Even Night, who lately frowned. 

Is in paler dawn dissolving. 
Earth will burst her fetters strange. 

And in Spring grow free ; 
All things in the world will change, 

Save — my love for thee ! 
Sing then^ hopeful are all times ! 
Winter^ Summer^ Spring times ! 

BaeET COElfWALL. 



118 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



DIRGE FOE THE YEAE. 

Oephan Hours, the Year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry Hours, smile instead, 
For the Year is but asleep : 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping. 

Mocking yom* untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay. 
So white "Winter, that rough nurse. 

Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day ; 
Solemn Hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild, 

Trembling Hours ; she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 

January gray is here, 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 

February bears the bier ; 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 

And April weeps — but, O ye Hours ! 

FoUow with May's fairest flowers. 

Peeoy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE SKATERS' SONG. 

This bleak and frosty morning. 
All thoughts of danger scorning. 
Our spirits brightly flow ; 
We 're all in a glow. 
Through the sparkling snow 
While a-skating we go : 

With afa^ la, la, la, la, la, la. 
To the sound of the merry horn. 

Great Jove looks on us smiling, 
Who thus the time beguiling. 
Through the waters we sail ; 
Still we row on our keel ; 
Our weapons are steel. 
And no danger we feel : 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, 
To the sound of the merry horn. 



From right to left we 're plying ; 

Swifter than winds we 're flying — 

Spheres on spheres surrounding. 

Health and strength abounding. 

In circles we sleep ; 

Our poise still we keep ; 

Behold how we sweep 

The face of the deep : 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, 
To the sound of the merry horn. 

See ! see our train advances ! 

See how each skater lances ! 

Health and strength abounding, 

While horns and oboes sounding ; 

The Tritons shall blow 

Their conch-shells below. 

And their beards fear to show, 

WhUe a-skating we go : 

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la. 
To the sound of the merry horn. 

Anonymous. 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 

IN CALLING FOETH AND STEENGTHENING THE 
IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain. 
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soul — 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, 
But with high objects, with enduring things, 
With Life and Nature ; purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought. 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear, — until we recognize 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
With stinted kindness. In November days. 
When vapors rolling down the valleys made 
A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods 
At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer 

nights. 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 



HYMN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI, 



119 



In solitude, such intercourse was mine. 
Mine was it in the fields both, day and night, 
And by the waters, all the Summer long ; 
And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 
The cottage windows through the twilight 

blazed, 
I heeded not the summons. Happy time 
It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village-clock tolled six ; I wheeled about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod with 

steel. 
We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding 

horn. 
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we flew. 
And not a voice was idle. With the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars. 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 

Kot seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 

throng. 
To cut across the reflex of a star — 
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain. And oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spin- 
ning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
Stopped short ; yet still the solitary clifis 
Wheeled by me, — even as if the Earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. 
Feebler and feebler ; and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 

WlXXIAM WOEDSWOETH. 



HYMN 

BEFOEE SIJNEISE, IX THE VALE OF CHAMOTJNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course? So long he seems to 

pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 
Eisest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black — 
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge I But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 

shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in 

prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with 

my thought — 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to 

Heaven ! 
Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the 

vale! 
struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they 

sink — 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald — wake, wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless piUars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 



120 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely 
glad ! 

TVho called you forth from night and utter 
death, 

From dark and icy caverns called yon forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 

For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
your joy. 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came), 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's 
brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice. 

And stopped at once amid their maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade 
the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with liv- 
ing flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your 
feet? 

God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of na- 
tions. 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 

God ! sing ye meadow-streams with glad- 
some voice ! 



Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 

sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 

frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's 

nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 

clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with 

praise ! 
Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the 

pure serene. 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy 

breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with 

tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
To rise before me — ^Rise, O ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And teU the stars, an(i tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
Samtjel Taylor Coleeidge. 



PART II. 

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



Piping down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a chUd, 
And he, laughing, said to me : 

"Pipe a song about a lamb." 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
" Piper, pipe that song again." 

So I piped ; he wept to hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe. 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 

So I sung the same again. 
While he wept with joy to hear. 

"Piper, sit thee down and write, 
In a book, that all may read." — 

So he vanished from my sight. 
And I plucked a hollow reed ; 

And I made a rural pen ; 

And I stained the water clear 
And I wrote my happy songs 

Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



BABY MAY. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches • 
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise ; 
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries ; 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Than on wind-swept autumn corn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion, 
Making every limb all motion ; 
Catchings up of legs and arms ; 
Throwings back and small alarms ; 
Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
Kickings up and straining risings ; 
Mother's ever new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings ; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
G raspings small at all that passes ; 
Pullings off of all that 's able 
To be caught from tray or table ; 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations • 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches ; 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by pressing ; 



Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we 'd ever have such dreamings ; 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we 'd always have thee waking ; 
"Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
Beauty all that beauty may be ; — 
That 's May Bennett ; that 's my baby. 

William C. Benitett. 



LULLABY. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go ; 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, 



Sleep and rest, sleep and rest ; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Rest, rest on mother's breast ; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Father will come to his babe in the nest ; 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon ; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 
Alfeed Tennyson. 



124 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 




And now he smiles, as if to say, 


CHOOSING A ISTA^fE 


" I am a Christian made this day ; " 




Now frighted clings to nurse's hold, 


I HAVE got a newr-born sister ; 


Shrinking from the water cold, 


I was nigh the first that kissed her. 


Whose virtues, rightly understood, 


When the nursing-woman brought her 


Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 


To papa, his infant daughter, 


Strange words— The World, The Flesh, The 


How papa's dear ejes did glisten ! — 


Devil- 


She will shortly be to christen ; 


Poor babe, what can it know of evil ? 


And papa has made the offer, 


But we must silently adore 


I shall have the naming of her. 


Mysterious truths, and not explore. 




Enough for him, in after times. 


Now I wonder what would please her — 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? 


When he shall read these artless rhymes, 
If, looking back upon this day 


Ann and Mary, they 're too common ; 


With quiet conscience, he can say 


Joan 's too formal for a woman ; 


" I have in part redeemed the pledge 


Jane 's a prettier name beside ; 
But we had a Jane that died. 


Of my baptismal privilege ; 

And more and more will strive to flee 


They would say, if 't was Eebecca, 


All which my sponsors kind did then re- 


That she was a little Quaker. 


nounce for me." 


Edith 's pretty, but that looks 


Chaeles Lajmb. 


Better in old English books ; 
Ellen 's left off long ago ; 






Blanche is out of fashion now. 




None that I have named as yet 


TO FERDINAND SEYMOUE. 


Are so good as Margaret. 




Emily is neat and fine ; 


EosY child, with forehead fair. 


What do you think of Caroline ? 


Coral lip, and shining hair, 


How I 'm puzzled and perplexed 


In whose mirthful, clever eyes 


What to choose or think of next i 


Such a world of gladness lies ; 


I am in a little fever 


As thy loose curls idly straying 


Lest the name that I should give her 


O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing. 


Should disgrace her or defame her : — 


Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine 


O 5 

I will leave papa to name her. 


With the glittering light of thine, — 


Maet Lamb, 


Who shall say, who gazes now, 




Which is fairest, she or thou ? 




In sweet contrast are ye met. 


THE CHEISTENING. 


Such as heart could ne'er forget : 




Thou art brilliant as a flower, 


Aeeated — a half-angelic sight — 


Crimsoning in the sunny hour ; 


In vests of pure baptismal white, 


Merry as a singing-bird. 


The mother to the Font doth bring 


In the green wood sweetly heard ; 


The little helpless, nameless thing 


Eestless as if fluttering wings 


With hushes soft and mild caressing, 


Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 


At once to get — a name and blessing. 


Ignorant of all distress. 


Close by the babe the priest doth stand. 


Full of childhood's carelessness. 


The cleansmg water at his hand 




Which must assoil the soul within 


She is gentle ; she hath known 


From every stain of Adam's sin. 


Something of the echoed tone 


The infant eyes the mystic scenes. 


Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, 


Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 


In this world of many woes. 



BABYHOOD. 12o 


On her brow such shadows are 


* 


As the faint cloud gives the star, 


PHILIP, MY KING. 


Veiling its most holy light, 




Though it still be pure and bright ; 


" Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of 
sovereignty." 


And the colour in her cheek 




To the hue on thine is weak, 


Look at me with thy large brown eyes. 


Save when flushed with sweet surprise, 


Philip, my King ! 


Sudden welcomes light her eyes ; 


For round thee the purple shadow lies 


And her softly chiseled face 


Of babyhood's regal dignities. 


(But for living, moving grace) 


Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 


Looks like one of those which beam 


With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 


In th' Italian painter's dream, — 


I am thine Esther, to command 


Some beloved Madonna, bending 


Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden. 


O'er the infant she is tending ; 


Philip, my King ! 


Holy, bright, and undefiled 




Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 


Oh, the day when thou goest a- wooing. 


Who, tho' painted strangely fair. 


Philip, my King ! 


Seems but made for holy prayer. 


When those beautiful lips are suing. 


Pity, tears, and sweet appeal. 


And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 


And fondness such as angels feel ; 


Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 


Baffling earthly passion's sigh 


Sittest all glorified ! — Rule kindly. 


With serenest majesty ! 


Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 




For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 


Oh ! may those enshrouded years 


Philip, my King ! 


Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 




May that brightly budding life. 


I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 


Knowing yet nor sin nor strife, — 


Philip, my King ! 


Bring its store of hoped-for joy, 


Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, 


Mother, to thy laughing boy ! 


That may rise like a giant, and make men bow 


And the good thou dost impart 


As to one God-throned amidst his peers. 


Lie deep-treasured in his heart, 


My Saul, than thy brethren higher and 


That, when he at length shall strive 


fairer. 


In the bad world where we live. 


Let me behold thee in coming years ! 


Thy sweet name may still be blest 


Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer. 


As one who taught his soul true rest ! 


Philip, my King — 


Caeoline Noetok. 






A wreath, not of gold, but palm ! One day. 


• 


Philip, my King ! 




Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way 


ON THE PICTURE OF AN I¥FA]^J"T 


Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray ; 


PLATmG- NEAE A PEEOIPIOE. 


Rebels within thee, and foes without 




Will snatch at thy crown. But go on. 


While on the cliff with calm delight she 


glorious. 


kneels. 


Martvr, vet monarch ! till angels shout, 


And the blue vales a thousand joys recall. 


*/ 7 */ t-' 7 

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, 


See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 


" Philip, the King ! " 

Anonymous. 


fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. — 


Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare. 




And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 

Leonidas of Alexandria. (Greek.) 






Translation of Samuel Eogees. 





126 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



THE CHILD AND THE WATOHEPw. 

Sleep on, baby on the floor, 

Tired of all thy playing — 
Sleep with smile the sweeter for 

That you dropped away in ; 
On your curls' fair roundness stand 

Golden lights serenely ; 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, 

Folds the dimple inly — 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure ; 
Underneath the lids half-shut 

Plants the shining azure ; 
Open-souled in noonday sun, 

So, you lie and slumber ; 
Nothing evil having done, 

Nothing can encumber. 

I, who cannot sleep as well, 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you ? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child, 

Ere the fate appeareth ! 
I smile, too ; for patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 

I shall sleep, though losing ! 
As by cradle, so by cross. 

Sweet is the reposing. 

And God knows, who sees us twain. 

Child at childish leisure, 
I am all as tired of pain 

As you are of pleasure. 
Yery soon, too, by His grace 

Gently wrapt around me, 
I shall show as calm a face, 

I shall sleep as soundly — 
Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping. 
While my hand must drop the few 

Given to my keeping — 

Differing in this, that I, 

Sleeping, must be colder, 
And, in waking presently. 

Brighter to beholder — 



Differing in this beside, 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move, and open wide 

Your great eyes toward me ?) 
That while I you draw withal 

From this slumber solely. 
Me, from mine, an angel shall, 

Trumpet-tongued and holy ! 

Elizabeth Bakeett Browning. 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, 
when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with 
angels." 

A BABY was sleeping ; 
Its mother was weeping ; 
For her husband was far on the wild raging 
sea; 
And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come 
back to me ! " 

Her beads while she numbered, 
The baby still slumbered, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her 
knee: 
" O blest be that warning, 
My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering 
with thee." 

" And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, wi^th me ! 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They 'd watch o'er thy father ! 

For I know that the angels are whispering 
to thee." 

The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father 
to see ; 
And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing. 
Said, "I knew that the angels were whis- 
pering with thee." 

Samuel Lover. 



THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD. 



121 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's 
face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have 
pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to 
me! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'T is sweet to watch for thee — alone for 
thee! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 
His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams 
of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 
Would you not say he slept on Death's 
cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought! — 
Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! — ^he but slept — ^I breathe again. 

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep 
beguile ! 
! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain. 

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 

Clotixde de Sueville. (French.) 
Translation of H. "W. Longfellow. 



THE CHILD m THE WILDERNESS. 

Enoinotured in a twine of leaves — 

That leafy twine his only dress — 
A lovely boy was plucking fruits 

In a moonlight wilderness. 
The moon was bright, the air was free, 

And fruits and flowers together grew, 
And many a shrub, and many a tree : 

And all put on a gentle hue, 



Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate where they say 

The night is more beloved than day. 
But who that beauteous boy beguiled- 

That beauteous boy ! — to linger here ? 
Alone by night, a little child. 
In place so silent and so wild — 

Has he no friend, no loving mother near ? 
Samttel Tatloe Coleetdoe. 



THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY 
CHILD. 

Child of the Country ! free as air 
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 
Born like the lily, where the dew 
Lies odorous when the day is new ; 
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee. 
Nursed to sweet music on the knee, 
LuUed in the breast to that sweet tune 
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June : 
I sing of thee ; — 'tis sweet to sing 
Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 

Child of the Town ! for thee I sigh ; 

A gilded roof 's thy golden sky, 

A carpet is thy daisied sod, 

A narrow street thy boundless wood. 

Thy rushing deer 's the clattering tramp 

Of watchmen, thy best light 's a lamp, — 

Through smoke, and not through trellised 

vines 
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines : 
I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair ? 

Child of the Country ! thy small feet 
Tread on strawberries red and sweet : 
With thee I wander forth to see 
The flowers which most delight the bee ; 
The bush o'er which the throstle sung 
In April while she nursed her young ; 
The dew beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
She bred her twins the timorous hare ; 
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue- bells, 
Where brown bees build their balmy cells, 
The greenwood stream, the shady pool, 
Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 



128 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
A portion of the sheltering tree, 
And other marvels which my verse 
Can find no language to rehearse. 

Child of the Town ! for thee, alas ! 
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass ; 
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
Glad streams come singing as they run ; 
A Maypole is thy blossomed tree ; 
A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
The poulterer dwells, beside the hare ; 
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound 
Hawked, clamorous, o'er the city round . 
No roses, twin-born on the stalk, 
Perfume thee in thy evening walk ; 
No voice of birds, — but to thee comes 
The mingled din of cars and di'ums, 
And startling cries, such as are rife 
"VThen wine and wassail waken strife. 

Child of the Country ! on the lawn 
I see thee like the bounding fawn. 
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing 
The first time on the wings of Spring ; 
Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; 
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, 
Now groping trouts in lucid streams. 
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round. 
Now hunting Echo's empty sound, 
Now climbing up some old tall tree — 
For climbing's sake — 'T is sweet to thee 
To sit where bu'ds can sit alone. 
Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 

Child of the Town and bustling street, 
"What woes and snares await thy feet ! 
Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ; 
And thou art cabined and confined. 
At once from sun, and dew, and wind, 
Or set thy tottering feet but on 
Thy lengthened walks of slippery stone. 
The coachman there careering reels, 
"With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; 
And Commerce pours each prosing son 
In pelf's pursuit and halloos " Run ! " 



While flushed with wine, and stung at play, 
Men rush from darkness into day. 
The stream 's too strong for thy small bark ; 
There nought can sail, save what is stark. 
Fly from the town, sweet child ! for health 
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
There is a lesson in each flower ; 
A story in each stream and bower ; 
On every herb o'er which you tread 
Are written words which, rightly read. 
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod. 
To hope and holiness, and God. 

Allan Cunningham. 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 

That way look, my infant, lo ! 
What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the kitten on the wall. 
Sporting with the leaves that fall — 
Withered leaves, — one, two, and three, — 
From the lofty elder-tree ! 
Through the calm and frosty air 
Of this morning bright and fair. 
Eddying round and round, they sink 
Softly, slowly ; one might think. 
From the motions that are made. 
Every little leaf conveyed 
Sylph or fairy hither tending. 
To this lower world descending. 
Each invisible and mute 
In his wavering parachute. 

But the Kitten, how she starts. 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 

First at one, and then its fellow 

Just as light and just as yellow ; 

There are many now, — now one, — 

Now they stop, and there are none. 

What intenseness of desire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 

With a tiger-leap ! Half-way 

Now she meets the coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again ; 

Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer ; 

Quick as he in feats of art. 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES, 



129 



Were her antics played in the eye 
Of a thousand standers-by, 
Clapping hands with shont and stare, 
"What would little Tabby care 
For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
Over happy to be proud, 
Over wealthy in the treasure 
Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

'Tis a pretty baby treat, 
N"or, I deem, for me unmeet ; 
Here for neither Babe nor me 
Other playmate can I see. 
Of the countless living things 
That with stir of feet and wings, 
(In the sun or imder shade. 
Upon bough or grassy blade,) 
And with busy revellings. 
Chirp, and song, and murmurings. 
Made this orchard's narrow space. 
And this vale, so blithe a place ; 
Multitudes are swept away, 
Never more to breathe the day. 
Some are sleeping ; some in bands 
Travelled into distant lands ; 
Others slunk to moor and wood, 
Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 
"With us openly abide. 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he, that giddy sprite. 
Blue-cap, with his colors bright. 
Who was blest as bird could be, 
Feeding in the apple-tree — 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out — 
Hung, head pointing towards the ground. 
Fluttered, perched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound — 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! 
Light of heart, and light of limb — 
What is now become of him ? 
Lambs, that through the mountains went 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 
When the year was in its prime, 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill, 



If you listen, all is still. 
Save a little neighboring rill 
That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 
Vainly glitter hill and plain, 
And the air is calm in vain ; 
Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure ; 
Creature none can she decoy 
Into open sign of joy. 
Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near ? 
Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gayety ? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every creature — 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show — 
Such a light of gladness breaks. 
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks,— 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Dora's face — 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 
That almost I could repine 
That your transports are not mine. 
That I do not whoUy fare 
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
And I wiU have my careless season 
Spite of melancholy reason, 
Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay. 
Now and then I may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
Pleased by any random toy — 
By a kitten's busy joy. 
Or an infant's laughing eye 
Sharing in the ecstasy — 
I wotdd fare like that or this. 
Find my wisdom in my bliss, 
Keep the sprightly soul awake. 
And have faculties to take. 
Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
Matter for a jocund thought — 
Spite of care, and spite of grief, 
To gambol with Life's falling leaf. 

"William Words woeth. 



180 POEMS OF ( 


CHILDHOOD. 




I sate alone in my cottage, 


THE GIPSY'S MATISON. 


The midnight needle plying ; 




I feared for my chUd, for the rush's light 


" SuoK, baby, suck I mother's love grows by- 


In the socket now was dying ! 


giving ; 




Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by 


There came a hand to my lonely latch, 


wasting : 


Like the wind at midnight moaning ; 


Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty 


I knelt to pray, but rose again. 


living 


For I heard my little boy groaning. 


Hands thee the cup that shall be death in 




tasting. 


I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast. 




But that night my chUd departed — 


Kiss, baby, kiss ! mother's lips shine by 


They left a weakling in his stead. 


kisses ; 


And I am broken-hearted ! 


Choke the warm breath that else would fall 




in blessings : 


Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy. 


Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty 


For his eyes are dim and hollow ; 


blisses 
Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caress- 
ings. 


My little boy is gone — is gone. 
And his mother soon will follow ! 


Hang, baby, hang ! mother's love loves such 


The dirge for the dead will be sung for me. 


forces ; 


And the mass be chanted meetly. 


Stram the fond neck that bends still to thy 


And I shaU sleep with my little boy. 


clinging : 


In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 


Black manhood comes, when violent lawless 


John AifSTEB. 


courses 
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 






So sang a withered beldam energetical. 


TO A CHILD 


And banned the ungiving door with lips pro- 


EMBEAOma HIS MOTHEE. 


phetical. 




Chablbs Lamb. 


I. 




Love thy mother, little one ! 
Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 




THE FA TRY CHILD. 


Hereafter she may have a son 




Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 


The summer sun was sinking 


Love thy mother, little one ! 


With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 




It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks, 


n. 


And his loose locks of yeUow. 


Gaze upon her living eyes. 




And mirror back her love for thee, — 


The robin was singing sweetly. 


Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 


And his song was sad and tender ; 


To meet them when they cannot see. 


And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the 


Gaze upon her living eyes ! 


song, 




Smiled with a sweet soft splendor. 


ni. 




Press her lips the while they glow 


My little boy lay on my bosom 


With love that they have often told, — 


While his soul the song was quaffing ; 


Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 


The joy of his soul had tmged his cheek, 


And kiss them till thine own are cold. 


And his heart and his eye were laughing. 


Press her lips the while they glow ! 



TO JOHN HUNT, 



131 



Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
Although it be not silver-gray — 
Too earlj Death, led on by Care, 
May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh ! revere her raven hair ! 

V. 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 
That Heaven may long the stroke defer — 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 

Thomas Hood. 



TO J. H. 

FOTTE TBAES OLD: — A NTJESEET SONG. 

.... Piend'amori, 
Pien di canti, e pien di fieri. 

Fktjgoni. 
Fxdl of little loves of ours, 
Full of songs, and full of flowers. 

Ah, little ranting Johnny, 

For ever blithe and bonny, 

And singing nonny, nonny, 

With hat just thrown upon ye ; 

Or whistling like the thrushes, 

With voice in sOver gushes ; 

Or twisting random posies 

With daisies, weeds, and roses ; 

And strutting in and out so, 

Or dancing all about so ; 

With cock-up nose so lightsome. 

And sidelong eyes so brightsome, 

And cheeks as ripe as apples, 

And head as rough as Dapple's, 

And arms as sunny shining 

As if their veins they 'd wine in. 

And mouth that smiles so truly 

Heav'n seems to have made it newly — 

It breaks into such sweetness 

With merry-lipped completeness ; 

Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio. 

As blithe as Laughing Trio ! 

— Sir Richard, too, you rattler. 

So christened from the Tatler, 

My Bacchus in his glory, 

My little Cor-di-fiori, 



My tricksome Puck, my Robin, 
Who in and out come bobbing. 
As full of feints and frolics as 
That fibbing rogue Antolycus, 
And play the graceless robber on 
Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, — 
Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, 
How can you, can you be so ? 

One cannot turn a minute. 

But mischief — there you 're in it : 

A-getting at my books, John, 

With mighty bustling looks, John ; 

Or poking at the roses. 

In midst of which your nose is ; 

Or climbing on a table, 

No matter how unstable. 

And turning up your quaint eye 

And half-shut teeth, with " Mayn't I ? ' 

Or else you 're off at play, John, 

Just as you 'd be all day, John, 

With hat or not, as happens ; 

And there you dance, and clap hands. 

Or on the grass go rolling, 

Or plucking flowers, or bowling, 

And getting me expenses 

With losing baUs o'er fences ; 

Or, as the constant trade is. 

Are fondled by the ladies 

With " What a young rogue this is ! " 

Reforming him with kisses ; 

TiU suddenly you cry out, 

As if you had an eye out, 

So desperately tearful, 

The sound is really fearful ; 

When lo ! directly after, 

It bubbles into laughter. 

Ah rogue ! and do you know, John, 
Why 't is we love you so, John ? 
And how it is they let ye 
Do what you like and pet ye. 
Though aU who look upon ye, 
Exclaim " Ah, Johnny, Johnny ! " 
It is because you please 'em 
Still more, John, than you teaze 'em ; 
Because, too, when not present. 
The thought of you is pleasant ; 
Because, though such an elf, John, 
They think that if yourself, John, 



132 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Had something to condemn too, 
You 'd be as kind to them too ; 
In short, because you 're very 
Good-tempered, Jack, and merry ; 
And are as quick at giving 
As easy at receiving ; 
And in the midst of pleasure 
Are certain to find leisure 
To think, my boy, of ours. 
And bring us lumps of flowers. 

But see, the sun shines brightly ; 
Come, put your hat on rightly, 
And we '11 among the bushes. 
And hear your friends, the thrushes ; 
And see what flowers the weather 
Has rendered fit to gather ; 
And, when we home must jog, you 
Shall ride my back, you rogue you, — 
Your hat adorned with fine leaves. 
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves ; 
And so, with green o'erhead, John, 
Shall whistle home to bed, John. 

Leigh Hitnt. 



TO H. 0. 



SIX TEAES OLD. 



O THOTT, whose fancies from afar are brought; 
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel. 
And fittest to unutterable thought 
The breeze-like motion and the self-born 

carol ; 
Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float 
In such clear water, that thy boat 
May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream — 
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
Where earth and heaven do make one 

imagery ; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 

I thought of times when Pain might be thy 

guest. 
Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
But when she sat within the touch of thee. 



O too industrious folly ! 

vain and causeless melancholy ! 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 

Preserve for thee, by individual right, 

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown 

flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow. 
Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings 

forth, 
lU fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
A gem that glitters while it lives. 
And no forewarning gives, 
But, at the touch of wrongs, without a strife 
Slips in a moment out of life. 

William Woeds"WOeth. 



TO A CHILD, DUEING SICKNESS. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee. 

My little, patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 
Smooths off the day's annoy. 

I sit me down, and think 
Of aU thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong piUowed meekness. 

Thy thanks to all that aid. 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness. 
Of fancied faults afraid ; 

The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears : 
These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly, midst my dear ones, 

Have wasted with dry brow ; 

But when thy fingers press 
And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness — 

The tears are in their bed. 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 



133 



Ah, first-born of tliy mother, 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 
Thy sister, father too ; 

My light, where'er I go ; 
My bird, when prison-bound ; 
My hand-in-hand companion — l^o, 
My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say " He has departed " — 

"His voice" — "his face" — ^is gone, 
To feel impatient-hearted. 
Yet feel we must bear on — 

Ah, I could not endure 
To whisper of such woe. 
Unless I felt this sleep ensure 
That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he 's fixed, and sleeping ! 

This silence too the while — 
Its very hush and creeping 
Seem whispering us a smile ; 
Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one's ear, 
Like parting wings of cherubim, 

"Who say, "We 've finished here." 

Leigh Hunt, 



CHILDEEX. 

Childeen" are what the'mothers are. 
No fondest father's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 
A father near him on his knee. 
Who wishes all the while to trace 
The mother in his future face ; 
But 't is to her alone uprise 
His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 
Open with joy and not surprise. 

"Waltee Savage Landoe. 



TO A SLEEPING OHELD. 

Aet thou a thing of mortal birth, 
Whose happy home is on our earth ? 
Does human blood with life imbue 
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, 
That stray along that forehead fair. 
Lost mid a gleam of golden hair ? 
Oh ! can that light and airy breath 
Steal from a being doomed to death ; 
Those features to the grave be sent 
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ; 
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, 
A phantom of a blessed dream ? 

A human shape I feel thou art — 
I feel it at my beating heart. 
Those tremors both of soul and sense 
Awoke by infant innocence ! 
Though dear the forms by Fancy wove. 
We love them with a transient love ; 
Thoughts from the living world intrude 
Even on her deepest solitude : 
But, lovely child ! thy magic stole 
At once into my inmost soul, 
With feelings as thy beauty fair. 
And left no other vision there. 

To me thy parents are unknown ; 
Glad would they be their child to own ! 
And well they must have loved before. 
If since thy birth they loved not more. 
Thou art a branch of noble stem. 
And, seeing thee, I figure them. 
What many a childless one would give. 
If thou in their still home would'st live ! 
Though in thy face no family line 
Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine ! " 
In time thou would'st become the same 
As their own child, — all but the name. 

How happy must thy parents be 
Who daily live in sight of thee ! 
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek 
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak. 
And feel all natural griefs beguiled 
By thee, their fond, their duteous child. 
What joy must in their souls have stirred 
When thy first broken words were heard — 
Words, that, inspired by heaven, expressed 
The transports dancing in thy breast ! 
And for thy smile ! — thy lip, cheek, brow. 
Even while I gaze, are kindling now. 



134 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



I called thee duteous ; am I wrong ? 
No ! truth, I feel, is in mj song : 
Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move 
To God, to nature, and to love ! 
To God ! — for thou, a harmless child, 
Hast kept his temple undefiled : 
To nature ! — for thy tears and sighs 
Obey alone her mysteries : 
To love ! — ^for fiends of hate might see 
Thou dyrell'st in love, and love in thee. 
What wonder then, though in thy dreams 
Thy face with mystic meaning beams ! 

Oh ! that my spirit's eye could see 
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! 
That light of dreaming soul appears 
To play from thoughts above thy years ; 
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring 
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. 
And who can tell what visions high 
May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? 
What brighter throne can brightness find 
To reign on, than an infant's mind, 
Ere sin destroy, or error dim. 
The glory of the seraphim ? 

But now thy changing smiles express 
Intelligible happiness. 
I feel my soul thy soul partake. 
What grief! if thou would'st now awake ! 
With infants happy as thyself 
I see thee bound, a playful elf ; 
I see thou art a darling child. 
Among thy playmates bold and wild ; 
They love thee well ; thou art the queen 
Of aU their sports, in bower or green ; 
And if thou livest to woman's height, 
In thee will friendship, love, delight. 

And live thou surely must ; thy life 
Is far too spiritual for the strife 
Of mortal pain ; nor could disease 
Find heart to prey on smiles like these. 
Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright — 
To those thou lovest, a saving light — 
The staff of age, the help sublime 
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime ; 
And when thou goest to heaven again, 
Thy vanishing be like the strain 
Of airy harp — so soft the tone 
The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! 

Thrice blessed he whose stars design 
His pure spirit to lean on thine, 
And watchful share, for days and years. 



Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears ! 

For good and guiltless as thou art. 

Some transient griefs will touch thy heart — 

Griefs that along thy altered face 

Will breathe a more subduing grace 

Than even those looks of joy that lie 

On the soft cheek of infancy. 

Though looks, God knows, are cradled there, 

That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair. 

Oh ! vision fair ! that I could be 
Again as young, as pure, as thee ! 
Vain wish ! the rainbow's radiant form 
May view, but cannot brave, the storm ; 
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 
That paint the bird of Paradise ; 
And years, so Fate hath ordered, roU 
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. 
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace. 
Such as the gladness of thy face, 
O sinless babe, by God are given 
To charm the wanderer back to heaven. 

No common impulse hath me led 
To this green spot, thy quiet bed, 
Where, by mere gladness overcome, 
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. 
When to the lake I would have gone, 
A wondrous beauty drew me on — 
Such beauty as the spirit sees 
In glittering fields and moveless trees, 
After a warm and silent shower 
Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. 
What led me hither, aU can say 
Who, knowing God, his wiU obey. 

Thy slumbers now cannot be long ; 
Thy little dreams become too strong 
For sleep — too like realities ; 
Soon shaU I see those hidden eyes. 
Thou wakest, and starting from the ground, 
In dear amazement look'st around ; 
Like one who, little given to roam, 
Wonders to find herself from home ! 
But when a stranger meets thy view, 
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue. 
A moment's thought who I may be, 
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. 

Fair was that face as break of dawn. 
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn, 
Like a thin veil that half concealed 
The light of soul, and half revealed. 
WhUe thy hushed heart with visions wrought. 
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought ; 



THE SLEEPING BOY. 



186 



And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, 

Like clouds came floating o'er thj cheek — 

Such summer-clouds as travel light, 

When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright — 

Till thou awokest ; then to thine eye 

Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy ! 

And lovely is that heart of thine, 

Or sure those eyes could never shine 

With such a wild, yet bashful glee, . 

Gay, half-o'ercome timidity ! 

Nature has breathed into thy face 

A spirit of imconscious grace — 

A spirit that lies never still.. 

And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will : 

As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake 

Soft airs a gentle rippling make, 

Till, ere we know, the strangers fly. 

And water blends again with sky. 

O happy sprite ! didst thou but know 
What pleasures through my being flow 
From thy soft eyes ! a holier feeling 
From their blue light could ne'er be stealing ; 
But thou would'st be more loth to part, 
And give me more of that glad heart. 
Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence 
The glory of thy innocence. 
But with deep joy I breathe the air 
That kissed thy cheek, and fanned thy hair. 
And feel, though fate our lives must sever. 
Yet shall thy image live for ever ! 

John Wilson. 



TO A CHILD. 

Deae child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as flame, 
Thou glancest round my graver hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
But on the summer breeze were borne, 
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow 

Delight and wonder come and go ; 

And eyes whose inward meanings play, 

Congenihl with the light of day ; 

And brow so calm, a home for Thought 

Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; 



Though wise indeed thou seemest not. 
Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. 

That shout proclaims the undoubting mind ; 
That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
And in thy look and dance of glee. 
Unforced, unthought of, simply free, 
How weak the schoolman's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, 
In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 

In spite of all foreboding fear, 

A thing thou art of present cheer ; 

And thus to be beloved and known, 

As is a rushy fountain's tone, 

As is the forest's leafy shade, 

Or blackbird's hidden serenade. 

Thou art a flash that lights the whole — 

A gush from natui'e's vernal soul. 

And yet, dear child ! within thee lives 
A power that deeper feeling gives. 
That makes thee more than light or air. 
Than aU things sweet and all things fair ; 
And sweet and fair as aught may be. 
Diviner life belongs to thee. 
For 'mid thine aimless joys began 
The perfect heart and will of Man. 

Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 
And while amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go, 
Ever within, not loud but clear. 
Prophetic murmur fiUs the ear. 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 

John Steeliko. 



TO GEOEGE M . 

Yes, I do love thee well, my child ! 

Albeit mine's a wandering mind ; 

But never, darling, hast thou smiled 

Or breathed a wish that did not find 

A ready echo in my heart. 

What hours I 've held thee on my knee, 

Thy little rosy lips apart ! 

Or, when asleep, I 've gazed on thee 



136 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



And with old times sung thee to rest, 
Hugging thee closely to my bosom ; 
For thee my very heart hath blest, 
My joy, my care, my blue-eyed blossom ! 
Thomas Millee, 



THE MOTHER'S HOPE. 

Is there, when the winds are singing 

In the happy summer time — 
When the raptured air is ringing 
With Earth's music heavenward springing, 

Eorest chirp, and village chime — 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Unsighingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 
As the laughter of a child ? 

Listen ! and be now delighted : 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 

Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; 

Life and Light are reunited, 
Amid countless carollings ; - 

Yet, delicious as they are. 

There 's a sound that 's sweeter far — 

One that makes the heart rejoice 

More than all, — ^the human voice ! 

Organ finer, deeper, clearer. 

Though it be a stranger's tone — 
Than the winds or waters dearer, 
More enchanting to the hearer. 
For it answereth to his own. 
But, of all its witching words 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers. 

Haunted strains from rivulets. 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — 

These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round — 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere my child could speak a word. 



Ah ! 't was heard by ear far purer, 
Fondlier formed to catch the strain — 

Ear of one whose love is surer — 

Eers^ the mother, the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 

Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 

Hers to hoard, a life-time after. 

Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'T is a mother's large affection 

Hears with a mysterious sense- 
Breathings that evade detection. 
Whisper faint, and fine inflexion, 

Thrill in her with power intense. 
Childhood's honied words untaught 
Hiveth she in loving thought — 
Tones that never thence depart ; 
For she listens — ^with her heart. 

Ti AMAT T Blanohaed. 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and 
fond. 
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest 
treasure. 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 
Nor thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy 
years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven; 
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 

Yet patient to rebuke when justly given- 
Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 
And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my 
child! 

ITot willing to be left — still by my side, 
Haunting my walks, while summer-day 
was dying ; 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 
Through the dark room where I was sadly 
lying; 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



187 



Or by the coucli of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered 
cheek. 

boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

ISTo strength in all thy freshness, prone to 
fade. 
And bending weakly to the thunder- 
shower ; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force 
to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the 
wind! 

Then thou, my merry love — bold in thy glee. 
Under the bough, or by the firelight danc- 
ing, 
"With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing 
glancing, 
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth. 
Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of 

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
soundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, 
And the glad heart from which all grief 
reboundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless, 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness 
warming ; 
The coaxing smile — the frequent soft caress — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath dis- 
arming ! 
Again my heart a new affection found. 
But thought that love with thee had reached 
its bound. 

At length thou camest — ^thou, the last and 
least, 
Mck-named " The Emperor " by thy laugh- 
ing brothers — 
Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
others — 



Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 
An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Eair shoulders — curling lips — and dauntless 
brow — 
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's 
dreaming ; 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head. 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both! yet each succeeding 
claim 
I, that all other love had been forswearing, 
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 

ITor injured either by this love's comparing ; 
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 
But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 
Caeoline Noeton. 



MOTHEE'S LOYE. 

He sang so wildly, did the boy, 

That you could never tell 

If 'twas a madman's voice you heard, 

Or if the spirit of a bird 

Within his heart did dwell — 

A bird that dallies with his voice 

Among the matted branches ; 

Or on the free blue air his note, 

To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float, 

With bolder utterance launches.. 

ISTone ever was so sweet as he, 

The boy that wildly sang to me ; 

Though toilsome was the way and long, 

He led me, not to lose the song. 

But when again we stood below 

The unhidden sky, his feet 

Grew slacker, and his note more slow, 

But more than doubly sweet. 

He led me then a little way 

Athwart the barren moor. 

And there he stayed, and bade me stay, 

Beside a cottage door ; 

I could have stayed of mine own will. 

In truth, my eye and heart to fill 

With the sweet sight which I saw there, 

At the dwelling of the cottager. 



138 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



A little in the doorway sitting, 

The mother plied her busy knitting ; 

And her cheek so softly smiled, 

You might be sure, although her gaze 

Was on the meshes of the lace, 

Yet her thoughts were with her child. 

But when the boy had heard her voice, 
As o'er her work she did rejoice, 
His became silent altogether ; 
And slily creeping by the wall. 
He seized a single plume, let fall 
By some wild bird of longest feather ; 
And all a-tremble with his freak. 
He touched her lightly on the cheek. 

O what a loveliness her eyes 
Gather in that one moment's space, 
"While peeping round the post she spies 
Her darling's laughing face ! 
O mother's love is glorifying. 
On the cheek like sunset lying ; 
In the eyes a moistened light. 
Softer than the moon at night ! 

Thomas Btjbbidge. 



THE PET LAMB. 

A PASTOEAL. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 

blink; 
I heard a voice ; it said, '' Drink, pretty 

creature, drink ! " 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I 

espied 
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden 

at its side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was 

all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a 

stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little 

maiden kneel. 
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its 

evening meal. 

The lamb, while fi-om her hand he thus his 

supper took. 
Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his 

tail with pleasure shook. 



" Drmk, pretty creature, drink ! " she said, 

in such a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my own. 

'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of 

beauty rare ! 
I watched them with delight : they were a 

lovely pair. 
JiTow with her empty can the maiden turned 

away ; 
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps 

did she stay. 

Eight towards the lamb she looked; and 
from a shady place 

I unobserved could see the workings of her 
face. 

If nature to her tongue could measured num- 
bers bring, 

Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid 
might sing : — 

" What ails thee, young one ? what ? Why 

pull so at thy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee ? weU both for bed 

and board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass 

can be ; 
Eest, little young one, rest ; what is 't that 

aileth thee ? 

" What is it thou would'st seek ? What is 
wanting to thy heart ? 

Thy limbs, are they not strong ? And beau- 
tiful thou art. 

This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they 
have no peers ; 

And that green corn all day is rustling in 
thy ears ! 

" K the sun be shining hot, do but stretch 

thy woollen chain — 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou 

canst gain ; 
For rain and mountain-storms — the like thou 

need'st not fear ; 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely 

can come here. 

" Eest, little young one, rest ; thou hast for- 
got the day 

When my father found thee first in places far 
away ; 



TO MY DAUGHTER, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



139 



Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert 

owned by none. 
And thy mother from thy side for evermore 

was gone. 

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity 

brought thee home : 
A blessed day for thee ! Then whither wouldst 

thou roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast — ^the dam that did 

thee yean 
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could 

have been. 

" Thou know'st that twice a day I have 

brought thee in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever 

ran; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is 

wet with dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk — warm milk 

it is, and new. 

" Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as 

they are now ; 
Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony 

in the plough. 
My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the 

wind is cold, 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 

be thy fold. 

" It will not, will not rest ! — ^Poor creature 
can it be 

That 't is thy mother's heart which is work- 
ing so in thee ? 

Things that I know not of belike to thee are 
dear. 

And dreams of things which thou canst nei- 
ther see nor hear. 

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green 

and fair ! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness 

that come there ; 
The little brooks, that seem aU pastime and 

all play, 
When they are angry roar like lions for their 

prey. 



" Here thou need'st not dread the raven in 

the sky ; 
Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is 

hard by. 
Why bleat so after me ? Why puU so at thy 

chain? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to 

thee again ! " 

— ^As homeward through the lane I went with 

lazy feet. 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line 

by line. 
That but half of it was hers, and one half of 

it was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; 

" Nay," said I, " more than half to the dam- 
sel must belong, 

For she looked with such a look, and she 
spake with such a tone, 

That I almost received her heart into my 
own." 

■WrLLIAM "WOBBSWOETH. 



TO MY DAUGHTEE, 

ON HEB BIETHDAY. 



Deae Fanny ! nine long years ago, 
While yet the morning sun was low, 
And rosy with the eastern glow 

The landscape smiled ; 
Whilst lowed the newly-wakened herds- 
Sweet as the early song of birds, 
I heard those first, delightful words, 

" Thou hast a child ! " 

n. 

Along with that uprising dew 

Tears glistened in my eyes, though few, 

To hail a dawning quite as new 

To me, as Time : 
It was not sorrow — not annoy — 
But like a happy maid, though coy. 
With grief-like welcome, even Joy 

Forestalls its prime. 



140 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



III. 

So may'st thou live, dear ! many years, 

In all the bliss that life endears, 

Not without smiles, nor yet from tears 

Too strictly kept. 

TVhen first thy infant littleness 

I folded in my fond caress. 

The greatest proof of happiness 

Was this — I wept. 

Thomas Hood. 



LITTLE OHILDREK 

Spoeting through the forest wide ; 
Playing by the waterside ; 
Wandering o'er the heathy fells ; 
Down within the woodland dells ; 
All among the mountains wild, 
Dwelleth many a little child ! 
In the baron's hall of pride ; 
By the poor man's dull fireside : 
'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean. 
Little children may be seen. 
Like the flowers that spring up fair. 
Bright and countless every where ! 
In the far isles of the main ; 
In the desert's lone domain ; 
In the savage mountain-glen, 
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ; 
Whereso'er a foot hath gone ; 
Whereso'er the sun hath shone 
On a league of peopled ground, 
Little children may be found ! 
Blessings on them ! they in me 
Move a kindly sympathy, 
"With their wishes, hopes, and fears ; 
"With their laughter and their tears ; 
With their wonder so intense. 
And their small experience ! 
Little children, not alone 
On the wide earth are ye known, 
'Mid its labors and its cares, 
'Mid its sufferings and its snares ; 
Free from sorrow, free from strife. 
In the world of love and life. 
Where no sinful thing hath trod — 
In the presence of your God, 
Spotless, blameless, glorified — 
Little children, ye abide ! 

Maet Howitt. 



A FANCY ABOUT A BOY. 

" Nothing, — less than nothing ; and vanity." 

We stood beside the window, still — 

The little boy and I ; 
Within the room was sober gloom ; 

Without, a sunset sky. 
I drew him forward to the light, 

That I might view him plain : 
The sudden view thrilled my heart through 

With a delicious pain. 

I leant his head back o'er my arm, 

And smoothed his crisped hair — 
The dear, dear curls, o'er which salt pearls 

I could have rained out there. 
I looked beneath his heavy lids. 

Drooping with dreamy fold : 
What visioned eyes I saw arise ! 

But nothing shall be told. 

Gayly I spoke : " Could I count back 

Nine years, and he gain nine, 
I would not say what ill to-day 

Had chanced this heart of mine." 
He laughed — all laughed — I most of all ; 

But I was glad, I ween. 
That the whole room lay in such gloom 

His face alone was seen. 

He talked to me in schoolboy phrase ; 

I gave him meet replies, 
I mind not what ; my sense was nought, 

Or lived but in mine eyes. 
I could not kiss him as a child ; 

I only touched his hair ; 
Or with my hand his broad brow spanned. 

But not that it was fair. 

He strange to me, as I to him — 

We never met before ; 
Yet I would fain brave mickle pain 

To see the lad once more. 
But why this was, and is, God knows ; 

And I — I know, with joy 
I'll find, among His angel-throng. 

An angel like that boy. 

ANOirrMoirs. 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS. 



141 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS. 

A PASTOEAL. 

The valley rings with mirth and joj ; 

Among the hills the echoes play 

A never, never-ending song, 

To welcome in the May. 

The magpie chatters with delight ; 

The mountain raven's youngling brood 

Have left the mother and the nest ; 

And they go rambling east and west 

In search of their own food ; 

Or through the glittering vapors dart 

In very wantonness of heart. 

Beneath a rock, upon the grass. 
Two boys are sitting in the sun ; 
Their work, if any work they have, 
Is out of mind, — or done. 
On pipes of sycamore they play 
The fragments of a christian hymn ; 
Or with that plant which in our dale 
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 
Their rusty hats they trim : 
And thus, as happy as the day. 
Those shepherds wear the time away. 

Along the river's stony marge 

The sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 

The thrush is busy in the wood. 

And carols loud and strong. 

A thousand lambs are on the rocks. 

All newly born ! both earth and sky 

Keep jubilee, and more than all. 

Those boys with their green coronal ; 

They never hear the cry. 

That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said "Walter, leaping from the ground, 
"Down to the stump of yon old yew 
We'U for our whistles run a race." 

Away the shepherds flew ; 

They leapt — ^they ran — and when they came 
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
" Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries. 
James stopped with no good will. 
Said Walter then, exulting, " Here 
You'll find a task for half a year. 



" Cross, if you'dare, where I shall cross, — 

Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 

The other took him at his word. 

And followed as he led. 

It was a spot which you may see 

If ever you to Langdale go ; 

Into the chasm a mighty block 

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : 

The gulf is deep below ; 

And, in a basin black and small. 

Receives a lofty waterfall. 

With staff in hand across the cleft 

The challenger pursued his march ; 

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 

The middle of the arch. 

When list ! he hears a piteous moan. 

Again ! — ^his heart within him dies ; 

His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost. 

He totters, pallid as a ghost. 

And, looking down, espies 

A lamb, that in the pool is pent 

Within that black and frightful rent. 

The lamb had slipped into the stream. 

And safe without a bruise or wound 

The cataract had borne him down 

Into the gulf profound. 

His dam had seen him when he fell — 

She saw him down the torrent borne ; 

And, with aU a mother's love. 

She ftom the lofty rocks above 

Sent forth a cry forlorn ; 

The lamb, stiU swimming round and round, 

Made answer in that plaintive sound. 

When he had learnt what thing it was 

That sent this rueful cry, I ween 

The boy recovered heart, and told 

The sight which he had seen. 

Both gladly now deferred their task ; 

N'or was there wanting other aid : 

A Poet, one who loves the brooks 

Far better than the sages' books. 

By chance had hither strayed ; 

And there the helpless lamb he found 

By those huge rocks encompassed round. 

He drew it from the troubled pool, 
And brought it forth into the light ; 
The shepherds met him with his charge. 



142 POEMS OF ( 


CHILDHOOD. 


An unexpected sight ! 




Into their arms the lamb they took, 


LITTLE BOY BLUE. 


Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; 




Then up the steep ascent they hied, 


When the corn-flelds and meadows 


And placed him at his mother's side ; 


Are pearled with the dew. 


And gently did the Bard 


With the first sunny shadow 


Those idle shepherd boys upbraid, 


Walks little Boy Blue. 


And bade them better mind their trade. 




William WoBDawoKTH. 


the Nymphs and the Graces 




StiU gleam on his eyes. 




And the kind fairy faces 






Look down from the skies ; 


THK fJFEPTTRRD ROY. 






And a secret revealing 


Like some vision olden 


Of life within life, 


Of far other time, 


When feeling meets feeling 


"When the age was golden, 


In musical strife ; 


In the young world's prime, 




Is thy soft pipe ringing, 


A winding and weaving 


lonely shepherd boy : 


In flowers and in trees. 


What song art thou singing, 


A floating and heaving 


In thy youth and joy ? 


In sunlight and breeze ; 


Or art thou complaining 


A striving and soaring. 


Of thy lowly lot. 


A gladness and grace, 


And thine own disdaining. 


Make him kneel half adoring 


Dost ask what thou hast not? 


The God in the place. 


Of the future dreaming. 




Weary of the past, 


Then amid the live shadows 


For the present scheming — 


Of lambs at their play. 


All but what thou hast. 


Where the kine scent the meadows 




With breath like the May, 


No^ thou art delighting 




In thy summer home ; 


He stands in the splendor 


Where the flowers inviting 


That waits on the morn, 


Tempt the bee to roam ; 


And a music more tender 


Where the cowslip, bending 


Distils from his horn ; 


With its golden bells. 




Of each glad hour's ending 


And he weeps, he rejoices. 


With a sweet chime tells. 


He prays ; nor in vain. 




For soft loving voices 


All wild creatures love him 


Wni answer again ; 


When he is alone ; 




Every bird above him 


And the Nymphs and the Graces 


Sings its softest tone. 


Still gleam through the dew. 


Thankful to high Heaven, 


And kind fairy faces 


Humble in thy joy. 


Watch little Boy Blue. 


Much to thee is given, 


Anontmotts. 


Lowly shepherd boy. 

L^TiTiA Elizabeth Maclean. 







LITTLE KED RIDING HOOD. 143 




With its rosy light. 


LITTLE EED KIDIISTG HOOD. 


Never can the memory part 




With Eed Eiding Hood, the darling, 




The flower of fairy lore. 


Come back, come back together, 




All ye fancies of tbe past, 


Did the painter, dreaming 


Ye days of April weatber. 


In a morning hour, 


Ye shadows that are cast 
By the haunted hours before ! 


Catch the fairy seeming 
Of this fairy flower ? 


Come back, come back, my Childhood ; 


Winning it with eager eyes 


Thou art summoned by a spell 


From the old enchanted stories. 


Erom the green leaves of the wildwood, 


Lingering with a long delight 


From beside the charmed well, 


On the unforgotten glories 


For Red Eiding Hood, the darling, 


Of the infant sight? 


The flower of fairy lore ! 


Giving us a sweet surprise 




Li Eed Eiding Hood, the darling. 


The fields were covered over 


The flower of fairy lore ? 


With colors as she went ; 




Daisy, buttercup, and clover 


Too long in the meadow staying. 


Below her footsteps bent ; 


Where the cowslip bends, 


Summer shed its shining store ; 


With the buttercups delaying 


She was happy as she pressed them 


As with early friends. 


Beneath her little feet ; 


Did the little maiden stay. 


She plucked them and caressed them ; 


Sorrowful the tale for us ; 


They were so very sweet. 


We, too, loiter mid life's flowers. 


They had never seemed so sweet before, 


A little while so glorious. 


To Eed Eiding Hood, the darling. 


So soon lost in darker hours. 


The flower of fairy lore. 


All love lingering on their way. 




Tiike Eed Eiding Hood, the darling, 


How the heart of childhood dances 


The flower of fairy lore. 


Upon a snnny day ! 


L^TiTiA Elizabeth Maclean. 


It has its own romances. 




And a wide, wide world have they ! 




• 


A world where Phantasie is king. 




Made all of eager di-eaming ; 


THR GAMBOLS OF OHILDEEK 


Wlien once grown up and tall — 




Now is the time for scheming — 


Down the dimpled green-sward dancing. 


Then we shall do them all ! 


Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — 


Do such pleasant fancies spring 


Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, 


For Eed Eiding Hood, the darling. 


Love's irregular little levy. 


The flower of fairy lore ? 






Eows of liquid eyes in laughter. 


She seems like an ideal love. 

The poetry of childhood shown. 
And yet loved with a real love. 


How they glimmer, how they quiver ! 
Sparkling one another after, 
T-ike bright ripples on a river. 


As if she were our own — 


Tipsy band of rubious faces, 


A younger sister for the heart ; 


Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit. 


Like the woodland pheasant. 


Make your mocks and sly grimaces 


Her hair is brown and bright ; 


At Love's self, and do not fear it. 


And her smile is pleasant, 


George Dablet. 



144 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 



Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover city ; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 

Washes its wall on the southern side ; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
But when begins my ditty. 

Almost five hundred years ago. 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity. 

n. 

Rats! 
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 

And licked the soup from the cook's own 
ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
And even spoiled the women's chats. 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

m. 

At last the people in a body 

To the Town HaU came flocking : 
" 'T is clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a 
noddy ; 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
"What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you 're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up, Sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we 're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing ! " , 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

IV. 

An hour they sate in counsel — 
At length the Mayor broke silence : 

" For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown sell ; 
I wish I were a mile hence ! 

It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 

I'm sure my poor head aches again. 



I 've scratched it so, and all in vain. 

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 

Just as he said this, what should hap 

At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 

" Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that? " 

(With the Corporation as he sat. 

Looking little though wondrous fat ; 

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 

Than a too-long-opened oyster. 

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 

For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous,) 

" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 

Anything like the sound of a rat 

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 

v. 
"Come in!" — the Mayor cried, looking 

bigger : 
And in did come the strangest figure ! 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
And he himself was tall and thin ; 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin ; 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin ; 
N"© tuft on cheek nor beard on chin. 
But lips where smiles went out and in — 
There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 
Quoth one : " It 's as my great-grandsire. 
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, 
Had walked this way from his painted tomb- 
stone ! " 

VI. 

He advanced to the council-table : 

And, " Please your honours," said he, "I'm 

able, 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fiy, or run. 
After me so as you never saw ! 
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm — 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper — 
And people call me the Pied Piper." 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
To match with his coat of the self same 

check ; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN, 



145 



And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 

straying 
As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
" Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 
In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 
I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 
And, as for what your brain bewilders — 
If I can rid your town of rats. 
Will you give me a thousand guilders ? " 
" One ? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation 
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

VII. 

Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept. 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled. 
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum- 
bling; 
And out of the houses the rats came tum- 
bling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats. 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ; 

Families by tens and dozens. 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing. 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river "Weser 
"Wherein all plunged and perished 
— Save one who, stout as Julius Caasar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As he the manuscript he cherished) 
To Eat-land home his commentary, 
Which was : " At the first shrill notes of the 

pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
10 



And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 

Into a cider-press's gripe — 

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards. 

And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, 

And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 

And it seemed as if a voice 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 

Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice ! 

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon. 

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! 

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 

All ready staved, like a great sun shone 

Glorious, scarce an inch before me. 

Just as methought it said. Come, bore me ! 

— I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 

VIII. 

You should have heard the Hamelin people 
Einging the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 
Consult with carpenters and builders, 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place. 
With a, " First, if you please, my thousand 
guilders ! " 



A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked 

blue; 
So did the Corporation too. 
For council dinners made rare havock 
With Claret, Moselle, Yin-de-Grave, Hock ; 
And half the money would replenish 
Their cellar's biggest butt with Ehenish. 
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 
" Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing 

wink, 
" Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 
So, friend, we 're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something for 

drink. 
And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 



146 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty I " 



The piper's face fell, and he cried, 

" N"o trifling ! I can't wait ! beside, 

I 've promised to visit by dinner time 

Bagdat, and accept the prime 

Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he 's rich in, 

For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen. 

Of a nest of scorpion's no survivor — 

With him I proved no bargain-driver; 

"With you, don't think I '11 bate a stiver I 

And folks who put me in a passion 

May find me pipe to another fashion." 



" How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I'll 

brook 
Being worse treated than a cook ? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
"With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst. 
Blow your pipe there till you burst ! " 

xn. 

Once more he stept into the street ; 
And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air) 

There was a rustling that seemed like a bus- 
tling 

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and 
hustling ; 

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes 
clattering. 

Little hands clapping, and little tongues 
chattering ; 

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley 
is scattering. 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

"With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 

The wonderful music with shouting and 
laughter. 



xm. 

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood, 
As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 
Unable to move a step, or cry 
To the children merrily skipping by — 
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
But how the Mayor was on the rack. 
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat. 
As the Piper turned from the High Street 
To where the "Weser rolled its waters 
Eight in the way of their sons and daughters ! 
However, he turned from South to "West, 
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addi-essed, 
And after him the children pressed ; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 
" He never can cross that mighty top ! 
He 's forced to let the piping di-op. 
And we shall see our children stop ! " 
When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide. 
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
And the Piper advanced and the children 

followed ; 
And when all were in, to the very last. 
The door in the mountain side shut fast. 
Did I say all ? No ! One was lame, 
And could not dance the whole of the way ! 
And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, — 
"It's dull in our town since my playmates 

left! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
"Which the Piper also promised me ; 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand. 
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 
And every thing was strange and new ; 
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks 

here. 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the Hill, 
Left alone against my will. 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



147 



To go now limping as before, 

And never hear of that country more ! 



XIV. 

Alas, alas for Hameliri ! 

There came into many a burgher's pate 

A text which says, that Heaven's gate 

Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! 
The Mayor sent East, "West, N'orth, and 

South, 
To offer the piper by word of mouth. 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him. 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
K he 'd only return the way he went. 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor. 
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 
K, after the day of the month and year, 
These words did not as weU appear, 
" And so long after what happened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen Hundred and Seventy-six : " 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the Children's last retreat 
They called it the Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the Great Church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their childi-en were stolen away ; 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there 's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterranean prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago, in a mighty band, 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
But how or why, they don't understand. 



So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers : 

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or 

from mice. 
If we 've promised them aught, let us keep 

our promise. 

EOBEET BeOWNING. 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

'T WAS the night before Christmas, when all 

through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with 

care. 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 

there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in their 

beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 

heads ; 
And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my 

cap. 
Had just settled our braius for a long winter's 

nap — 
When out on the lawn there arose such a 

clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the 

matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash. 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen 

snow. 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should 

appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein- 
deer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St, Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they 

came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called 

them by name ; 
" Now, Dasher ! now. Dancer ! now, Prancer 

and Vixen ! 
On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and 

Blitzen — 



148 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 


To the top of the porch, to the top of the 


He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a 


waU! 


whistle. 


Now, dash awaj, dash away, dash away 


And away they all flew like the down of a 


all!" 


thistle ; 


As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane 


But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of 


fly, 


sight. 


When they meet with an obstacle, mount to 


" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good- 


the sky, 


night!" 


So, up to the house-top the coursers they 


Clement C. Mooee. 


flew, 




With the sleigh full of toys— and St. Nicho- 






las too. 




And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 




The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 


SATUEDAY AJb'TEKNOON. 


As I drew in my head, and was turning 




around, 


I LOVE to look on a scene like this. 


Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 


Of wild and careless play. 


bound. 


And persuade myself that I am not old. 


He was dressed all in far from his head to 


And my locks are not yet gray ; 


his foot, 


For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 


And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes 


And makes his pulses fly, 


and soot ; 


To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 


A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 


And the light of a pleasant eye. 


And he looked like a pedler just opening his 




pack. 


I have walked the world for fourscore years, 


His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how 


And they say that I am old — 


merry ! 


That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 


His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 


And my years are well-nigh told. 


cherry ; 


It is very true — it is very true — 


His droll little mouth was drawn up like a 


I am old, and I " bide my time ; " 


bow. 


But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 


And the beard on his chin was as white as 


And I half renew my prime. 


the snow. 




The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 


Play on ! play on 1 I am with you there. 


And the smoke, it encircled his head like a 


In the midst of your merry ring ; 


wreath. 


I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 


He had a broad face and a little round belly 


And the rush of the breathless swing. 


That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl fuU 


I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 


of jelly. 


And I whoop the smothered call. 


He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old 


And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 


elf; 


And I care not for the fall. 


And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of 




myself. 


I am willing to die when my time shall come, 


A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 


And I shall be glad to go — 


Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 


For the world, at best, is a weary place. 


He spoke not a word, but went straight to 


And my pulse is getting low ; 


his work. 


But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 


And filled all the stockings ; then turned with 


In treading its gloomy way ; 


a jerk, 


And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 


And laying his finger aside of his nose, 


To see the young so gay. 


And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 


Nathaniel Paekee Willis. 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 



149 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 
To think how modest worth neglected lies, 
While partial Fame doth with her blasts 

adorn 
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; 
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise. 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies. 
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy. 
Lost in the dreary shades of duU obscurity. 

In every village marked with little spire. 
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to 

Fame, 
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress 

name, 
"Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the power of this relentless dame; 
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are 

sorely shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
Which Learning near her little dome did 

stow, 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 
Though now so wide its waving branches flow. 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that 

blew. 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse 

beat low ; 
And as they looked, they found their horror 

grew. 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 

view 

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) 
A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; 
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look 

aghast ; 
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 



No superstition clog his dance of joy, 

No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green, 
On which the tribe their gambols do display ; 
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen, 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should 

stray. 
Eager, nerdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
The noises intermixed, which thence resound. 
Do Learning's little tenement betray ; 
Where sits the dame, disguised in look pro- 
found. 
And eyes her fairy ihrong, and turns her 
wheel around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe. 
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field ; 
And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears en- 
twined. 
With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled. 
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement un- 
kind. 

Few but have kenned, in semblance meet por- 
trayed, 
The childish faces of old Eol's train ; 
Libs, Notus, Auster ; these in frowns arrayed. 
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or 

main, 
Were the stern god to give his slaves the 

rein? 
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell. 
And were not she her statutes to maintain. 
The cot no more, I ween, were deemed the 

ceU, 
Where comely peace of mind and decent 
order dwell. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; 
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 
'T was simple russet, but it was her own ; 
'Twas her own country bred the flock so 

fair; 
'T was her own labor did the fleece prepare ; 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around. 
Through pious awe did term it passing rare ; 



160 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



For they in gaping -wonderment abound, 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest 
wight on ground ! 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
I^e pompous title did debauch her ear ; 
Goody, good- woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 
Yet these she challenged, these she held right 

dear ; 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, 
Who should not honored eld with these re- 

" vere; 
For never title yet so mean could prove. 
But there was eke a mind which did that 

title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed. 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need, 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ! 
Such favor did her past deportment claim ; 
And if I^eglect had lavished on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could ex- 
pound, 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb 
she found. 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could 



That in her garden sipped the silvery dew, 
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy 

streak ; 
But herbs for use and physic not a few. 
Of grey renown, within these borders grew ; 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue, 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here 

to rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 

Tliat gives dim eyes to wander leagues 

around ; 
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ; 
And plantain ribbed, that heals the reaper's 

wound ; 
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie 

found; 



And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
Shall be ere while in arid bundles bound. 
To lurk amid the labors of her loom, 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle 
rare perfume. 

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom 

crowned 
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, 
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 
A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 
Where edged with gold its glittering skirts 

appear. 
Oh wassel days ! O customs meet and well ! 
Ere this was banished fi-om its lofty sphere ! 
Simplicity then sought this humble ceil, 
Nor ever would she more with thane and 

lordling dwell. 

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve. 
Hymned such psalms as Sternliold forth did 

mete. 
If winter 't were, she to her hearth did 

cleave. 
But in her garden found a summer-seat ; 
Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king. 
While taunting foemen did a song entreat, 
All for the nonce untuning every string, 
Uphung their useless lyres — smaU heart had 

they to sing. 

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore. 
And passed much time in truly virtuous deed ; 
And in those elfin ears would oft deplore 
The times when truth by Popish rage did 

bleed. 
And tortuous death was true devotion's 

meed, 
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn. 
That nould on wooden image place her creed ; 
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did 

burn; 
Ah, dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should 

e'er return ! 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, 
In which, when he receives his diadem, 
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is 
placed. 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 



151 



The matron sate, and some with rank she 

graced, 
(The source of children's and of courtiers' 

pride !) 
Redressed affronts, for vile affronts there 

passed ; 
And warned them not the fretful to deride. 
But love each other dear, whatever them 

hetide. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to 

raise ; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high. 
And some entice with pittance small of 

praise ; 
And other some with baleful sprig she frays ; 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 

sways ; 
Forewarned if little bird their pranks behold, 
'T will whisper in her ear and all the scene 

unfold. 

Lo ! now with state she utters the command ; 
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
Their books of stature small they take in 

hand. 
Which with pellucid horn secured are, 
To save from fingers wet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
St. George's high achievements doth declare ; 
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been. 
Kens the forthcoming rod — ^unpleasing sight, 

I ween ! 

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star ! it irks me while I write ; 
As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream. 
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous plight. 
Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late de- 
light ! 
And down they drop ; appears his dainty 

skin. 
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 

O ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure. 
His little sister doth his peril see ; 
All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; 
She finds fuU soon her wonted spirits flee ; 



She meditates' a prayer to set him free ; 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, 
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) 
To her sad grief, which swells in either eye. 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could 
die. 

1^0 longer can she now her shrieks command, 
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear. 
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous 

hand 
To stay harsh justice in his mid-career. 
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) 
She sees no kind domestic visage near ; 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow. 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may 

trace ? 
Or what device his loud laments explain ? 
The form uncouth of his disguised face ? 
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 
The plenteous shower that does his cheek 

distain ? 
When he in abject wise implores the dame, 
ISTe hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her aim. 
And through the thatch his cries each falling 

stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay. 
Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care ; 
By turns, astonied, every twig survey, 
And from their fellow's hateful wounds be- 
ware, 
Knowing, I wis, how each the same may 

share. 
Till fear has taught them a performance meet. 
And to the well-known chest the dame re- 

pak, 
Whence oft with sugared cates she doth them 

greet, 
And ginger-bread y-rare ; now, certes, doubly 
sweet. 

See to their seats they hie with merry glee. 
And in beseemly order sitten there ; 
All but the wight of bum y-gaUed ; he 
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and foxu-m, and 
chair 



152 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



(This hand in mouth y-fixed, that rends his 

hair ;) 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving 

breast, 
Convulsions intermitting, doth declare 
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest; 
And scorns her offered love, and shuns to be 

caressed. 

His foce besprent with liquid crystal shines. 
His blooming face that seems a purple flower, 
Which low to earth its drooping head de- 
clines. 
All smeared and sullied by a vernal shower. 
O the hard bosoms of despotic power I 
All, all but she, the author of his shame, 
All, all but she, regret this mournful hour ; 
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower 

shall claim, 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and 
fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought. 
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; 
ITe for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught. 
But to the wind all merriment resigns ; 
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ; 
And many a sullen look askance is sent, 
"Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; 
And still the more to pleasure him she 's bent, 
The more doth he perverse, her haviour past 
resent. 

Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be ! 
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see. 
Ye quench not too the sparks of noble fires. 
Ah ! better far than all the Muses' lyres. 
All coward arts, is valor's generous heat ; 
The firm flxt breast which flt and right re- 
quires, 
Like Yernon's patriot soul ! more justly great 
Than craft that pimps for ill or flowery false 
deceit. 

Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits 

appear ! 
E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here, 
And there a chancellor in embryo, 



Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, 
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er 

shall die ! 
Though now he crawl along the ground so 

low, 
Kor weeting how the Muse should soar on 

high, 
"Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite 

may fly. 

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design. 
Low lays the house which that of cards doth 

build. 
Shall Dennis be ! if rigid Fate incline. 
And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field. 
And, soured by age, profound he shall ap- 
pear, 
As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrilled 
Surveys mine work ; and levels many a sneer, 
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What 
stuff is here ? " 



And now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie. 
And Liberty unbars her prison-door ; 
And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
And now the grassy cirque had covered o'er 
"With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; 
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run ; 
Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I 

implore ! 
For well may freedom erst so dearly won, 
Appear to British elf more gladsome than 

the sun. 



Enjoy, poor imps I enjoy your sportive trade. 

And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flow- 
ers, 

For when my bones in grass-green sods are 
laid; 

For never may ye taste more careless hours 

In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. 

O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 

But most in courts where proud Ambition 
towers ; 

Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can 
spring 

Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of 
king. 



THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD 



158 



See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 
These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund 

leer 
Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to 

play ; 
Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend. 
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite 

to spend. 

Here, as each season yields a different store, 
Each season's stores in order ranged been ; 
Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er, 
Galling full sore th' unmoneyed wight, are 

seen; 
And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green ; 
And here of lovely dye, the Catharine pear, 
Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween : 
O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, 
Lest smit with ardent love he pine with 

hopeless care ! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, 
Scattering like blooming maid their glances 

round, 
With pampered look draw little eyes aside ; 
And must be bought, though penury betide. 
The plumb aU azure and the nut all brown, 
And here each season do those cakes abide. 
Whose honored names th' inventive city 

own, 
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's 

praises known. 

Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride 
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient 

wave. 
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried. 
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings 

brave : 
Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his 

grave, 

Whose art did first these dulcet cates display! 

A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave. 

Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; 

Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on 

their way. 

William Shenstone. 



THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 

N"ow ponder weU, you parents dear, 

The words which I shall write ; 
A doleful story you shall hear. 

In time brought forth to light : 
A gentleman, of good account. 

In Norfolk lived of late, 
Whose wealth and riches did surmount 

Most men of his estate. 

Sore sick he was, and like to die. 

No help then he could have; 
His wife by him as sick did lie. 

And both possessed one grave. 
No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kind ; 
In love they lived, in love they died. 

And left two babes behind : 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Not passing three years old 
The other a girl, more young than he, 

And made in beauty's mould. 
The father left his little son, 

As plainly doth appear, 
When he to perfect age should come. 

Three hundred pounds a year 

And to his little daughter Jane 

Five hundred pounds in gold, 
To be paid down on marriage-day, 

Which might not be controlled : 
But if the children chance to die 

Ere they to age should come, 
Their uncle should possess their wealth, 

For so the wiU did run. 

" Now, brother," said the dying man, 

''Look to my children dear ; 
Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friends else I have here : 
To God and you I do commend 

Mj children, night and day ; 
But little while, be sure, we have, 

Withui this world to stay. 

You must be father and mother both. 

And uncle, all in one ; 
God knows what will become of them 

When I am dead and gone." 



154 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



"Witli that bespake tlieir mother dear, 
" O brother kind," quoth she, 

" You are the man must bring our babes 
To wealth or misery. 

And if you keep them carefully, 

Then God will you reward ; 
If otherwise you seem to deal, 

God will your deeds regard." 
With lips as cold as any stone, 

She kissed her children small : 
" God bless you both, my children dear," 

With that the tears did fall. 



These speeches then their brother spake 

To this sick couple there : 
" The keeping of your children dear, 

Sweet sister do not fear ; 
God never prosper me nor mine, 

Nor aught else that I have. 
If I do wrong your children dear. 

When you are laid in grave." 

Their parents being dead and gone, 

The children home he takes, 
And brings them home unto his house, 
• And much of them he makes. 
He had not kept these pretty babes 

A twelvemonth and a day, 
But, for their wealth, he did devise 

To make them both away. 

He bargained with two ruffians strong, 

Which were of furious mood, 
That they should take these children young, 

And slay them in a wood. 
He told his wife, and all he had, 

He did the children send 
To be brought up in fair London, 

With one that was his friend. 

Away then went these pretty babes. 

Rejoicing at that tide. 
Rejoicing with a merry mind, 

They should on cock-horse ride. 
They prate and prattle pleasantly, 

As they rode on the way. 
To those that should their butchers be, 

And work their lives' decay. 



So that the pretty speech they had, 

Made Murder's heart relent ; 
And they that undertook the deed 

Full sore they did repent. 
Yet one of them, more hard of heart. 

Did vow to do his charge. 
Because the wretch that hired him 

Had paid him very large. 

The other would not agree thereto, 

So here they fell at strife; 
With one another they did fight. 

About the children's life : 
And he that was of mildest mood. 

Did slay the other there. 
Within an unfrequented wood ; 

While babes did quake for fear. 

He took the children by the hand 

When tears stood in their eye, 
And bade them come and go with him, 

And look they did not cry : 
And two long miles he led them on. 

While they for food complain : 
" Stay here," quoth he, " I '11 bring yon bread, 

When I do come again." 

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, 

Went wandering up and down ; 
But never more they saw the man, 

Approaching from the town. 
Their pretty lips, with black-berries, 

Were all besmeared and dyed, 
And, when they saw the darksome night, 

They sate them down and cried. 

Thus wandered these two pretty babes, 

Till death did end their grief; 
In one another's arms they died, 

As babes wanting relief. 
No burial these pretty babes 

Of any man receives. 
Till robin-red-breast, painfully, 

Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrath of God 

Upon their uncle fell ; 
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, 

His conscience felt an heU. 



LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. 155 


His barns were fired, Ms goods consumed, 


But now I s6e, most cruell hee 


His lands were barren made; 


Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 


His cattle died within the field, 


Balow^ my lale^ ly stil and sleipe ! 


And nothing with him stayed. 


It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 


And, in the voyage of Portugal, 


Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile. 


Two of his sons did die ; 


And when thou wakest sweitly smile : 


And, to conclude, himself was brought 


But smile not, as thy father did. 


To extreme misery. 


To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 


He pawned and mortgaged all his land 


But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire. 


Ere seven years came about : 


Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 


And now, at length, this wicked act 


Balow, my lobe, ly stil and sleipe! 


Did by this means come out : 


It grieves me sair to see tTiee weipe. 


The fellow that did take in hand 




These children for to kill. 
Was for a robbery judged to die. 

As was God's blessed will ; 
Who did confess the very truth, . 


I cannae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil : 
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 
My luve with, him maun stil abyde : 
In weil or wae, whar-eir he gae, 


The which is here expressed: 
Their uncle died while he, for debt, 
In prison long did rest. 


Mine hart can neir depart him frae. 

Balow, my lale^ ly stil and sleipe I 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 


You that executors be made, 




And overseers eke ; 


But doe not, doe not prettie mine. 


Of children that be fatherless, 


To faynings fals thine hart incline : 


And infants mild and meek. 


Be loyal to thy luver trew. 


Take you example by this thing, 


And nevir change hir for a new : 


And yield to each his right. 


If gude or faire, of hir have care. 


Lest God, with such like misery, 


Eor women's banning 's wonderous sair. 


Your wicked minds requite. 


Balow, my lobe, ly stil and sleipe ! 


Anonymous. 


It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 


— ^— 


Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane. 




Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; 


LADY AKN B0THWELT;S LAMENT. 


My babe and I '11 together live, 




He '11 comfort me when cares doe grieve : 


A SCOTTISH SONG. 


My babe and I right saft will ly. 


Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 


And quite forget man's cruelty. 


It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; 


Balow, my lobe, ly stil and sleipe! 


If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad, 


It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 


Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. 




Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy 1 


Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth 


Thy father breides me great annoy. 


That ever kist a woman's mouth ! 


Balow^ my Idbe^ ly stil and sleipe ! 


I wish all maids be warned by mee, 


It grieves me sair to see tJiee weipe. 


ISTevir to trust man's curtesy ; 




For if we doe but chance to bow. 


When he began to court my luve. 


They '11 use us than they care not how. 


And with his sugred words to muve, 


Balow, my bale, ly stil and sleipe ! 


His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, 


It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 


To me that time did not appeire : 


ANOlfYMOaS. 



156 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



DANAE. 

Whilst, around her lone ark sweeping, 

Wailed the winds and waters wild, 
Her young cheeks all wan with weeping, 

Daniie clasped her sleeping child ; 
And " Alas," (cried she,) "my dearest, 

What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine ! 
But nor w^rongs nor woes thou fearest, 

In that sinless rest of thine. 
Faint the moonbeams break above thee, 

And, within here, all is gloom ; 
But fast wrapt in arms that love thee, 

Little reck'st thou of our doom. 
Not the rude spray round thee flying. 

Has e'en damped thy clustering hair, — 
On thy purple mantlet lying, 

O mine Innocent, my Fair ! 
Yet, to thee were sorrow sorrow, 

Thou would'st lend thy httle ear. 
And this heart of thine might borrow 

Haply yet^a moment's cheer. 
But no ; slumber on. Babe, slumber ; 

Slumber, Ocean- waves ; and you, 
My dark troubles, without number, — 

O, that ye would slumber too ! 
Though with wrongs they've brimmed my 
chalice. 

Grant Jove, that, in future years. 
This boy may defeat their malice. 

And avenge his mother's tears." 



SiiioNEDES. (Greek.) 



Translation of TVilltam Petee. 



BOYHOOD. 

Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded 

days! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays. 
That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But oh ! what charm, or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
Those weary, happy days did leave ? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; 
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Washington Allston. 



HER EYES ARE WILD. 



Hee eyes are wild, her head is bare, 

The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 

Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. 

And she came far from over the main. 

She had a baby on her arm, 

Or else she were alone ; 

And underneath the hay-stack warm. 

And on the greenwood stone. 

She talked and sung the woods among. 

And it was in the English tongue. 



" Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad ; 

But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 

And I am happy when I sing 

Full many a sad and doleful thing. 

Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 

I pray thee have no fear of me ; 

But safe as in a cradle, here, 

My lovely baby ! thou shalt be. 

To thee I know too much I owe ; 

I cannot work thee any woe. 

m. 

" A fire was once within my brain. 
And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
And fiendish faces, one, two, three. 
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me. 
But then there came a sight of joy ; 
It came at once to do me good : 
I waked, and saw my little boy, 
My little boy of flesh and blood ; 
O joy for me that sight to see ! 
For he was here, and only he. 



" Suck, little babe, O suck again ! 
It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
Thy lips, I feel them, baby ! they 
Draw from my heart the pain away. 

press me with thy little hand ! 
It loosens something at my chest ; 
About that tight and deadly band 

1 feel thy little fingers prest. 
The breeze I see is in the tree — 
It comes to cool my babe and me. 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 



15Y 



" O love me, love me, little boy ! 
Thou art thy mother's only joy; 
And do not dread the waves below, 
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 
The high crag cannot work me harm, 
!N"or leaping torrents when they howl ; 
The babe I carry on my arm, 
He saves for me my precious soul ; 
Then happy lie ; for blest am I ; 
Without me my sweet babe would die. 



" Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 

Bold as a lion will I be ; 

And I will always be thy guide, 

Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 

I '11 build an Indian bower ; I know * 

The leaves that make the softest bed ; 

And, if from me thou wilt not go. 

But still be true till I am dead, 

My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 

As merry as the birds in Spring. 

VII. 

" Thy father cares not for my breast, 
'T is thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 
'T is all thine own ! — and if its hue 
Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
'T is fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
My beauty, little child, is flown. 
But thou wilt live with me in love ; 
And what if my poor cheek be brown ? 
'T is well for me thou canst not see 
How pale and wan it else would be. 

vni. 

" Dread not their taunts, my little Life ; 
I am thy father's wedded wife ; 
And underneath the spreading tree 
We two will live in honesty. 
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 
With me he never would have stayed. 
From him no harm my babe can take ; 
But he, poor man, is wretched made ; 
And every day we two will pray 
For him that 's gone and far away. 



" I 'U teach my boy the sweetest things : 

I '11 teach him how the owlet sings. 

My little babe ! thy lips are still, 

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 

— Where art thou gone, my own dear child i 

What wicked looks are those I see ? 

Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 

It never, never came from me. 

If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 

Then I must be for ever sad. 



" O smile on me, my little lamb ! 
For I thy own dear mother am. 
My love for thee has weU been tried : 
I 've sought thy father far and wide. 
I know the poisons of the shade ; 
I know the earth-nuts fit for food. 
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; 
We 'U find thy father in the wood. 
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! 
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 
William Woedswoeth. 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

"Why would'st thou leave me, gentle 

child? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild — 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ; 
Mine is a fair and pillared hall. 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of pictures for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers 
play, 

Through the long bright hours of the sum- 
mer's day ; 

They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 

And they chase the bee o'er the scented 
thyme. 

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms 
they know : 

Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell ; 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovesl 
well: 



158 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Flutes oil the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune, 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
"Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain 
heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest ; 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; 
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no 

more, 
Nor heai her song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh. 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest 

dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away? — 
But I know that my brothers are there at 

play— 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's 

bell, 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now; 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green 

side. 
And the streams where the fairy barks were 

tied. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For the cabin home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny 

hill?— 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow; 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

Felicia Hemans. 



LUCY GEAY; 

OE, SOLITUDE. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 

And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see, at break of day 

The solitary child. 

ITo mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 

She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 

Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 

The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 

Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night, — 

You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern. Child, to light 

Your mother through the sno^." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do ; 

'T is scarcely afternoon, — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! " 

At this the father raised his hook, 

And snapped a faggot-band. 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 

The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe — 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 

That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time ; 

She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb, 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 

Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 

To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 



I KEMEMBER, 


I REMEMBER. 159 


They wept, — and, turning homeward, cried, 


' 


" In heaven we all shall meet ; " — 


UNDER MY WINDOW. 


"WTien in the snow the mother spied 




The print of Lucy's feet. 


Under my window, under my window, 




All in the Midsummer weather, 


Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 


Three little girls with fluttering curls 


They tracked the footmarks small ; 


Flit to and fro together : — 


And through the hroken hawthorn-hedge, 


There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. 


And by the low stone-wall ; 


And Maud with her mantle of silver-green. 




And Kate with her scarlet feather. 


And then an open field they crossed — 




The marks were still the same : 


Under my window, under my window, 


They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 


Leaning stealthily over. 


And to the bridge they came. 


Merry and clear, the voice I hear 




Of each glad-hearted rover. 


They followed from the snowy bank 


Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 


Those footmarks, one by one. 


And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, 


Into the middle of the plank ; 


As merry as bees in clover. 


And further there were none ! 






Under my window, under my window, 


— ^Yet some maintain that to this day 


In the blue Midsummer weather, 


She is a living child ; 


Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe. 


That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 


I catch them all together : — 


Upon the lonesome wild. 


Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 




And Maud with her mantle of silver-green. 


O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 


And Kate with the scarlet feather. 


And never looks behind ; 




And sings a solitary song 


Under my window, under my window. 


That whistles in the wind. 


And off through the orchard closes ; 


William Woedswoeth. 


While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts. 




They scamper and drop their posies ; 




But dear little Kate takes nought amiss, 
And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss. 






And I give her aU my roses. 


CHILDHOOD. 

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 


T. Westwood. 




Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought 


• 


Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 


I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 


To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope 




Down which the child would roll ; to pluck 


I EEMEMBEE, I remember 


gay flowers. 


. The house where I was born. 


Make posies in the sun, which the child's 


The little window where the sun 


hand 


Came peeping in at morn; 


(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,) 


He never came a wink too soon. 


Would throw away, and straight take up 


Nor brought too long a day ; 


again. 


But now, I often wish the night 


Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the 


Had borne my breath away ! 


lawn 
Bound with so playful and so light a foot. 
That the pressed daisy scarce declined her 

head. 


I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups — 


Chatiles Lamb. 


Those flowers made of light ! 



160 POEMS OF ( 


CHILDHOOD. 


The lilacs where the robin built, 


" Two of us in the churchyard lie. 


And where my brother set 


My sister and my brother ; 


The laburnum on his birth-day, — 


And, in the churchyard cottage, I 


The tree Is living yet ! 


Dwell near them with my mother." 


I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 


"You say that two at Conway dwell. 

And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell. 

Sweet maid, how this may be." 


o 

To swallows on the wing ; 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 


That is so heavy now. 




And summer pools could hardly cool 


Then did the little maid reply, 


The fever on my brow ! 


" Seven boys and girls are we ; 




Two of us in the churchyard lie. 


I remember, I remember 


Beneath the churchyard tree." 


The fir-trees dark and high ; 




I used to think their slender tops 


" You run about, my little maid ; 


Were close against the sky. 


Your limbs they are alive ; 


It was a childish ignorance, 


If two are in the churchyard laid. 


But now 'tis little joy 


Then ye are only five." 


To know I 'm farther off from heaven 




Than when I was a boy. 


" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 


Thomas Hood. 


The little maid replied. 




" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 




And they are side by side. 


WE AEE SEVEN. 


"My stockings there I often knit, 


A SIMPLE child. 


My kerchief there I hem ; 


That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 


And there upon the ground I sit. 
And sing a song to them. 


What should it know of death ? 






"And often after sunset, sir, 


I met a little cottage girl : 


When it is light and fair, 


She was eight years old, she said ; 


I take my little porringer. 


Her hair was thick with many a curl 


And eat mv supper there. 


That clustered round her head. 






" The first that died was sister Jane ; 


She had a rustic, woodland air, 


In bed she moaning lay, 


And she was wildly clad ; 


Till God released her of her pain ; 


Her eyes were fail-, and very fair ; — 


And then she went away. 


Her beauty made me glad. 




" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 


" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 


How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in alL" she said. 


And, when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we played, 


And wondering looked at me. 


My brother John and I. 


" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 


" And when the ground was white with snow, 


She answered, "Seven are we; 


And I could run and slide. 


And two of us at Conway dwell, 


My brother John was forced to go. 


And two are gone to sea. 


And he lies by her side." 



THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. 



161 



"How many are you, then," said I, 

" If they two are in heaven ? " 
Quick was the little maid's reply, 

" Master ! we are seven." 

"But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven ! " — 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 

And said, " Kay, we are seven ! " 

TVlXLIAM WOKDSWOETH. 



a:n:nie m the grayeyard. 

She bounded o'er the graves, 
"With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
She bounded o'er the graves. 
Where the weeping willow waves. 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her eyes were glittering bright ; 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her little hands spread wide, 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelt the lettered word 
That registers the dead ; 
She spelt the lettered word. 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 
With pleasure as she read. 

She stopped and culled a leaf 
Left fluttering on a rose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf. 
Sweet monument of grief. 
That in our churchyard grows. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'T was near her sister's mound; 
She culled it with a smile. 
And played with it awhile. 
Then scattered it around. 

I did not chill her heart, 
Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
I did not chill her heart — 
Oh, bitter drops will start 
Full soon in coming years. 



11 



Cakoltne Gilman. 



THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. 

A LITTLE child, beneath a tree, 

Sat and chanted cheerily 

A little song, a pleasant song. 

Which was — she sang it all day long— 

" When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 

But a good God reigns over all." 

There passed a lady by the way. 
Moaning in the face of day : 
There were tears upon her cheek, 
Grief in her heart too great to speak; 
Her husband died but yester-morn. 
And left her in the world forlorn. 

She stopped and listened to the child 
That looked to heaven, and singing, smiled; 
And saw not, for her own despair, 
Another lady, young and fair, 
Who also passing, stopped to hear 
The infant's anthem ringing clear. 

For she but few sad days before 
Had lost the little babe she bore ; 
And grief was heavy at her soul 
As that sweet memory o'er her stole, 
And showed how bright had been the past. 
The present drear and overcast. 

And as they stood beneath the tree 
Listening, soothed and placidly, 
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes 
Spake of a load of miseries ; 
And he, arrested like the twain. 
Stopped to listen to the strain. 

Death had bowed the youthful tead 
Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : 
Her marriage robes were fitted on, 
Her fair young face with blushes shone, 
When the destroyer smote her low. 
And changed the lover's bliss to woe. 

And these three listened to the song, 
Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, 
Which that child, the livelong day. 
Chanted to itself in play : 
" When the wind blows the blossoms fall. 
But a good God reigns over all." 



162 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



The widow's lips impulsive moved ; 
The mother's grief, though unreproved, 
Softened, as her trembling tongue 
Kepeated what the infant sung ; 
And the sad lover, with a start, 
Conned it over to his heart. 

And though the child — ^if child it were. 

And not a seraph sitting there — 

Was seen no more, the sorrowing three 

"Went on their way resignedly. 

The song still ringing in their ears — 

"Was it music of the spheres ? 

Who shall tell ? They did not know. 
But in the midst of deepest woe 
The strain recurred, when sorrow grew, 
To warn them, and console them too : 
"When the wind blows the blossoms fall, 
But a good God reigns over all." 

Chablbs Maokat. 



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. 

My mother bore me in the southern wild. 
And I am black ; but, O, my soul is white ! 
White as an angel is the English child. 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree ; 
And, sitting down before the heat of day. 
She took me on her lap, and kissed me, 
And, pointing to the east, began to say : 

"Look on the rising sim; there God does 

live, 
And gives his light, and gives his heat away ; 
And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, 

receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

" And we are put on earth a little space, 
That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 
And these black bodies and this sunburnt 

face 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 



"For when our souls have learned the heat 
to bear, 

The clouds will vanish; we shaU hear His 
voice. 

Saying, ' Come from the grove, my love and 
care, 

And round my golden tent like lambs re- 
joice.' " 

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me. 
And thus I say to little English boy : 
When I from black, and he from white 

cloud free. 
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, 

I 'U shade him from the heat, till he can bear 
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 
And then I 'U. stand and stroke his silver hair. 
And be like him, and he will then love me. 
"WrLT.TAM Blake, 



THE CHBCSTET SWEEPER. 

When my mother died, I was very young ; 
And my father sold me, while yet my tongue 
Could scarcely cry, " weep ! weep ! weep ! 

weep! 
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I 



There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when 

his head, 
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved ; 

so I said. 
Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your 

head's bare. 
You know that the soot cannot spoil your 

white hair. 

And so he was quiet, and that very night. 
As Tom was a sleeping, he had such a sight — 
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, 

and Jack, 
Were all of them locked up in coffins of 

black. 

And by came an angel who had a bright key. 
And he opened the coffins, and set them all 
free; 



LITTLE BELL, 



Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, 

they run, 
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. 

Then naked and white, all their bags left 

behind. 
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind ; 
And the angel told Tom, if he 'd be a good 

toy, 
He'd have God for his Father, and never 

want joy. 

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark. 
And got with our bags and our brushes to 

work ; 
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy 

and warm. 
So if all do then* duty they need not fear 

harm. 

William Blake. 



LITTLE BELL. 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

Ancient Maetnee. 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray : 
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name ? " quoth he — 
"What's your name? O stop and straight 

unfold, 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — 

" Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here's the very finest song I know. 

Little BeU," said he. 

And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird — 

Full of quips and wiles. 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below. 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 



And the while'the bonny bird did pour 
His fuU heart out freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow. 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the 

glade. 
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of 

fear — 
While bold blackbird piped that all might 
hear — 
" Little BeU ! " piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies — 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — 

And adown the tree. 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
In the little lap, dropped one by one — 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fim ! 

" Happy Bell ! " pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you 're not afraid. 

Come and share with me ! " 
Down came squkrel eager for his fare — 
Down came bonny blackbu'd I declare ; 
Little BeU gave each his honest share — 

Ah the merry three ! 

And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough 
again, 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little chUdish heart below 
AU the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow, 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day. 
Knelt sweet BeU, with folded palms to pray — 

Yery calm and clear 
Eose the praying voice to where, unseen. 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhUe to hear — 



164 POEMS OF ( 


CHILDHOOD. 


" What good chUd is this," the angel said, 




" That with happy heart, beside her bed 


A CHILD PEAYING. 


Prays so lovingly ? " 




Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft. 


Fold thy little hands in prayer. 


Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft. 


Bow down at thy mother's knee 


" BeU, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 


N'ow thy sunny face is fair, 




Shining through thine auburn hair ; 


" Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 


Thine eyes are passion-free ; 


Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' 


And pleasant thoughts, like garlands, bind thee 


care; 


Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee— 


Child, thy bed shall be 


Then pray, child, pray ! 


Folded safe from harm— Love deep and kind, 
Shall watch around and leave good gifts be- 
hind. 


Now, thy young heart, like a bird. 
Warbles in its summer nest ; 


No evil thought, no unkind word. 


Little BeU, for thee." 

T. Westwood. 


No chilling autumn winds have stirred 




The beauty of thy rest ; 




But winter hastens, and decay 






Shall waste thy verdant home away — 


BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. 


Then pray, child, pray ! 




Thy bosom is a house of glee. 


We were crowded in the cabin. 


With gladness harping at the door ; 


Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 


While ever, with a joyous shout, 


It was midnight on the waters 


Hope, the May queen, dances out. 


And a storm was on the deep. 


Her lips with music running o'er ; 




But Time those strings of joy will sever. 


'Tis a fearful thing in Winter 


And Hope will not dance on for ever — 


To be shattered by the blast. 


Then pray, child, pray 1 


And to hear the rattling trumpet 




Thunder, " Cut away the mast ! " 


Now, thy mother's arm is spread 




Beneath thy pillow in the night ; 


So we shuddered there in silence, — 


And loving feet creep round thy bed, 


For the stoutest held his breath. 


And o'er thy quiet face is shed 


While the hungry sea was roaring, 


The taper's darkened light ; 


And the breakers talked with Death. 


But that fond arm will pass away. 




By thee no more those feet will stay — 


As thus we sat in darkness, 


Then pray, child, pray ! 


Each one busy in his prayers, 


EOBEET AeIS WiLLMOTT. 


" We are lost ! " the captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 






But his Httle daughter whispered, 


TO A CHILD. 


As she took his icy hand. 




" Isn't God upon the ocean, 


Thy memory, as a spell 


Just the same as on the land ? " 


Of love, com6s o'er my mind — 




As dew upon the purple bell — 


Then we kissed the little maiden. 


As perfume on the wind ; — 


And we spoke in better cheer. 


As music on the sea — 


And we anchored safe in harbor 


As sunshine on the river ; — 


When the morn was shining clear. 


So hath it always been to me. 


James T. Fields. 


So shall it be for ever. 



LUCY. 



165 



I hear thy voice in dreams 

Upon me softly call, 
Like echoes of the mountain streams, 

In sportive waterfall. 
I see thy form as when 

Thou wert a living thing, 
And blossomed in the eyes of men, 

Like any flower of Spring. 

Thy soul to heaven hath fled, 

From earthly thraldom free ; 
Yet, 't is not as the dead 

That thou appear'st to me. 
In slumber I behold 

Thy form, as when on earth, 
Thy locks of waving gold. 

Thy sapphire eye of mirth. 

I hear, in solitude. 

The prattle kind and free 
Thou uttered'st in joyful mood 

While seated on my knee. 
So strong each vision seems 

My spirit that doth fill, 
I think not they are dreams, 

But that thou livest still. 

Anostmous. 



LUCY. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove. 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— ^Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, O ! 

The difference to me ! 



Theee years she grew in sun and shower; 
Then ligature said, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself wiU take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 



She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend : 
'Nov shall she fail to see. 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 

The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 

William Woedswobth. 



166 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



THE DYING CHILD. 

OoME closer, closer, dear mamma, 
My heart is filled with fears, 

My eyes are dark, — I hear your sobs. 
But camiot see your tears. 

I feel your warm breath on my lips 

That are so icy cold ; 
Come closer, closer, dear mamma, 

Give me your hand to hold. 

I quite forget my httle hymn, 

" How doth the busy bee," 
"Which every day I used to say. 

When sitting on your knee. 

Kor can I recollect my prayers ; 

And, dear mamma, you know 
That the great God will angry be 

If I forget them too. 

And dear papa, when he comes home, 

O will he not be vext ? 
" Give us this day our daily bread ; " — 

"What is it that comes next ? 

Hush, darling ! you are going to 
The bright and blessed sky, 

"Where all God's holy children go, 
To live with him on high. 

But will he love me, dear mamma. 

As tenderly as you ? 
And will my own papa, one day. 

Come and live with me too ? 

But you must first lay me to sleep. 
Where grand-papa is laid ; — 

Is not the churchyard cold and dark, 
And sha 'nt I feel afraid ? 

And will you every evening come. 

And say my pretty prayer 
Over poor Lucy's little grave. 

And see that no one 's there ? 



And promise me that when you die. 
That they your grave shall make 

Next unto mine, that I may be 
Close to you when I wake ? 

Nay do not leave me dear mamma. 
Your watch beside me keep ; 

My heart feels cold — ^the room's all dark, 
Now lay me down to sleep : — 

And should I sleep to wake no more, 
Dear, dear mamma, good-bye : 

Poor nurse is kind ; but oh ! do you 
Be with me when I die ! 

George Williams Fitlchee. 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

A HOST of angels flying. 

Through cloudless skies impelled. 

Upon the earth beheld 
A pearl of beauty lying, 

Worthy to glitter bright 

In Heaven's vast halls of light. 

They saw with glances tender. 
An infant newly born. 
O'er whom life's earliest morn 

Just cast its opening splendor : 
Virtue it could not know. 
Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 

The blest angelic legion 
Greeted its birth above. 
And came, with looks of love. 

From heaven's enchanting region ; 
Bending their winged way 
To where the infant lay. 

They spread their pinions o'er it, — 
That little pearl which shone 
With lustre all its own, — 

And then on high they bore it, 

Where glory has its birth ; — 

But left the shell on earth. 

DiBK Smits (Dutch). 
Translation of H. S. Van Dtk. 



MY PLAYMATES. 



167 



MY PLAYMATES. 

£ ONOE had a sister, fair 'mid the fair ! 
With a face that looked out from its soft 

golden hair, 
Like a lily some tall stately angel may hold. 
Half revealed, half concealed in a mist of 

pure gold. 
I once had a brother, more dear than the 

day, 
With a temper as sweet as the blossoms in 

May; 
With dark hair like a cloud, and a face like 

a rose, 
The red child of the wild ! when the sum- 
mer-wind blows. 
We lived in a cottage that stood in a dell ; 
Were we born there or brought there I never 

could tell. 
Were we nursed by the angels, or clothed by 

the fays, 
Or, who led when we fled down the deep 

sylvan ways, 
'Mid treasures of gold and of silver ! 

When we rose in the morning we ever said 

"Hark!" 
We shall hear, if we list, the first word of the 

lark ; 
And we stood with our faces, cahn, silent, 

and bright. 
While the breeze in the trees held his breath 

with delight. 
the stream ran with music, the leaves dript 

with dew, 
And we looked up and saw the great God in 

the blue ; 
And we praised him and blessed him, but 

said not a word. 
For we soared, we adored, with that magical 

bird. 
Then with hand linked in hand, how we 

laughed, how we sung ! 
How we danced in a ring, when the morn- 
ing was young ! 
How we wandered where kingcups were 

crusted with gold. 
Or more white than the light glittered daisies 

untold, 

Those treasures of gold and of silver ! 



well I remen^ber the flowers that we found, 
With the red and white blossoms that dam- 
asked the ground ; 
And the long lane of light, that, half yellow, 

half green, 
Seemed to fade down the glade where the 

young fairy queen 
Would sit with her fairies around her and 

sing. 
While we listened all ear, to that song of the 

Spring. 
O well I remember the lights in the west. 
And the spire, where the fire of the sun 

seemed to rest. 
When the earth, crimson-shadowed, laughed 

out in the air, — 
Ah ! I '11 never believe but the fairies were 

there ; 
Such a feeling of loving and longing was ours. 
And we saw, with glad awe, little hands in 

the flowers. 
Drop treasures of gold and of silver. 

weep ye and wail ! for that sister, alas ! 
And that fair gentle brother lie low in the 



Perchance the red robins may strew them 

■ with leaves. 
That each morn, for white corn, would come 

down from the eaves ; 
Perchance of their dust the young violets are 

made. 
That bloom by the church that is hid in the 



But one day I shall learn, if I pass where 
they grow. 

Far more sweet they will greet their old play- 
mates,! know. 

Ah ! the cottage is gone, and no longer I see 

The old glade, the old paths, and no lark 
sings for me ; 

But I still must believe that the fairies are 
there. 

That the light grows more bright, touched 
by fingers so fair, 
'Mid treasures of gold and of silver ! 

Anontmoits. 



168 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



THE OPEIT WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 

Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 

The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door ; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens. 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 

With sweet familiar tone ; 
But the voices of the children 

Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 

HiNBY Wadswoeth Longfello-w. 



SHE CAME Am) WENT. 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven. 
The blue dome's measureless content. 

So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift Spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent. 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 
I only know she came and went. 



An angel stood and met my gaze. 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

O, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And when the oil is nearly spent. 

One gush of light these eyes will brim. 
Only to think she came and went. 

James Etjssell Lowell. 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 

We wreathed about our darling's head 

The morning-glory bright ; 
Her little face looked out beneath, 

So full of life and light. 
So lit as with a sunrise. 

That we could only say, 
" She is the morning-glory true. 

And her poor types are they." 

So always from tiiat happy time 

We called her by their name, 
And very fitting did it seem — 

For sure as morning came, 
Behind her cradle bars she smiled 

To catch the first faint ray, 
As from the treUis smiles the flower 

And opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rear 

Their airy cups of blue. 
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; 
And not so close their tendrils fine 

Round their supports are thrown. 
As those dear arms whose outstretched pl( 

Clasped all hearts to her own. 

We used to think how she had come. 

Even as comes the flower. 
The last and perfect added gift 

To crown Love's morning hour ; 
And how in her was imaged forth 

The love we could not say, 
As on the little dewdrops round 

Shines back the heart of day. 



THE THREE SONS. 



169 



We never could have thonght, O God, 

That she must wither up, 
Almost before a day was flown, 

Like the morning-glory's cup ; 
"We never thought to see her droop 

Her fair and noble head. 
Till she lay stretched before our eyes. 

Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 

The morning-glory's blossoming 

Will soon be coming round — 
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 

Fpspringing from the ground ; 
The tender things the winter killed 

Eenew again their birth. 
But the glory of our morning 

Has passed away from earth. 

Oh, Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 

Stretch over thy green plain ! 
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 

Her spirit to sustain : 
But up in groves of Paradise 

Full surely we shall see 
Our morning-glory beautiful 

Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 

MATtT\ 'White Lowell. 



BABY'S SHOES. 

Oh those little, those little blue shoes ! 

Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 

Those little blue unused shoes ! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That, by God's good will. 

Years since, grew still. 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And oh, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

With a tearful pleasure. 

That little dear treasure. 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 



For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor ; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 
A little sweet face 
That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use. 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start! 

"WiLT.TAM C. Bennett. 



THE THEEE SONS. 

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years 

old. 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind 

of gentle mould. 
They teU me that unusual grace in all his 

ways appears. 
That my child is grave and wise of heart be- 
yond his childish years. 
I cannot say how this may be ; I know his 

face is fair — 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet 

and serious air ; 
I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know 

he loveth me ; 
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful 

fervency. 
But that which others most admire, is the 

thought which fills his mind. 
The food for grave inquiring speech he every 

where doth find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when 

we together walk ; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks 

as children talk. 
'Not cares he much for childish sports, dotes 

not on bat or ball. 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and 

aptly mimics all. 



170 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes 

perplext 
"Witli thoughts about this world of ours, and 

thoughts about the next. 
He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she 

teacheth him to pray ; 
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are 

the words which he will say. 
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to man- 
hood's years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will 

be; 
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke 

his thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to 

lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of 

three; 
I '11 not declare how bright and fair his little 

features be. 
How silver sweet those tones of his when he 

prattles on my knee ; 
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his 

brother's, keen, 
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as 

his hath ever been ; 
But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind 

and tender feeling ; 
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich 

depths of love revealing. 
When he walks with me, the country folk, 

who pass us in the street, 
"Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks 

so mild and sweet. 
A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with 

cheerful tone, 
Will sing his little song of love, when left to 

sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 

home and hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten 

all our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant 

his heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 

for earthly love ; 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching 

eyes must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we 

shall lose in him. 



I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I 

cannot tell, 
For they reckon not by years and months 

where he is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fom-teen anxious months, his infant 

smiles were given ; 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went 

to live in Heaven. 
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he 

weareth now, 
'Roy guess how bright a glory crowns his 

shining seraph brow. 
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss 

which he doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things which 

God will not reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that 

he is now at rest, 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Sa- 
viour's loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary 

load of flesh, 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams 

of joy for ever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath 

their glittering wings, 
And soothe him with a song that breathes of 

Heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his 

mother dear and I,) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears 

from every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss 

can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his 

is certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls 

from bliss may sever ; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must 

be ours for ever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and 

what we still must be — 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, 

and this world's misery — 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and 

feel this grief and pain — 
! we 'd rather lose our other two, than 

have him here again. 

John Mottlteie. 



THRENODY. 



Ill 



THRENODY. 

The South-wind brings 

Life, sunshine, and desire, 

And on every mount and meadow 

Breathes aromatic fire ; 

But over the dead he has no power ; 

The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; . 

And, looking over the hUls, I mourn 

The darling who shall not return. 

I see my empty house ; 

I see my trees repair their houghs ; 

And he, the wondrous child. 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

"Within the air's cerulean round — 

The hyacinthine boy, for whom 

Morn well might break and April bloom — 

The gracious boy, who did adorn 

The world whereinto he was born, 

And by his countenance repay 

The favor of the loving Day — 

Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; 

Far and wide she cannot find him ; 

My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 

Returned this day, the South-wind searches. 

And finds young pines and budding birches; 

But finds not the budding man ; 

I^ature, who lost him, cannot remake him ; 

Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; 

Nature, Fate, Men, him seek in vain. 

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, 

O, whither tend thy feet? 

I had the right, few days ago, 

Thy steps to watch, thy place to know • 

How have I forfeited the right? 

Hast thou forgot me in a new delight? 

I hearken for thy household cheer, 

eloquent chUd! 

Whose voice, an equal messenger, 

Conveyed thy meaning mild. 

What though the pains and joys 

Whereof it spoke were toys 

Fitting his age and ken, 

Yet fairest dames and bearded men, 

Who heard the sweet request, 

So gentle, wise, and grave. 

Bended with joy to his behest, 



And let the world's afiairs go by, 
Awhile to share his cordial game, 
Or mend his wicker wagon-frame. 
Still plotting how their hungry ear 
That winsome voice again might hear ; 
For his lips could well pronounce 
Words that were persuasions. 

Gentlest guardians marked serene 
His early hope, his liberal mien ; 
Took counsel from his guiding eyes 
To make this wisdom earthly wise. 
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
The school-march, each day's festival. 
When every morn my bosom glowed 
To watch the convoy on the road ; 
The babe in willow wagon closed. 
With rolling eyes and face composed ; 
With children forward and behind, 
Like Cupids studiously inclined ; 
And he the chieftain paced beside. 
The centre of the troop allied. 
With sunny face of sweet repose. 
To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
The little captain innocent 
Took the eye with him as he went ; 
Each vUlage senior paused to scan 
And speak the lovely caravan. 
From the wiadow I look out 
To mark thy beautiful parade, 
Stately marching in cap and coat 
To some tune by faiiies played ; 
A music, heard by thee alone. 
To works as noble led thee on. 

Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, 

Tip and down their glances strain. 

The painted sled stands where it stood ; 

The kennel by the corded wood ; 

The gathered sticks to stanch the wall 

Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall; 

The ominous hole he dug in the sand. 

And childhood's castles built or planned ; 

His daily haunts I well discern — 

The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn — 

And every inch of garden ground 

Paced by the blessed feet around. 

From the roadside to the brook 

Whereinto he loved to look. 

Step the meek bkds where erst they ranged 

The wintry garden lies unchanged ; 



1*72 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 


The brook into the stream runs on ; 


His beauty once their beauty tried; 


But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 


They could not feed him, and he died. 




And wandered backward as in scorn, 


On that shaded day, 


To wait an aeon to be born. 


Dark with more clouds than tempests are, 


Ill day which made this beauty waste. 


When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 


Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 


In birdlike heavings unto death, 


Some went and came about the dead ; 


Night came, and Nature had not thee ; 


And some in books of solace read ; 


I said, " We are mates in misery." 


Some to their friends the tidings say ; 


The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 


Some went to write, some went to pray ; 


Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow; 


One tarried here, there hurried one ; 


Each tramper started ; but the feet 


But their heart abode with none. 


Of the most beautiful and sweet 


Covetous Death bereaved us all. 


Of human youth had left the hill 


To aggrandize one funeral. 


And garden — ^they were bound and still. 


The eager fate which carried thee 


There's not a sparrow or a wren. 


Took the largest part of me. 


There's not a blade of Autumn grain, 


For this losing is true dying ; 


Which the four seasons do not tend, 


This is lordly man's down-lying, 


And tides of life and increase lend ; 


This his slow but sure reclining. 


And every chick of every bird. 


Star by star his world resigning. 


And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 




0, ostrich-like forgetfulness ! 


child of Paradise, 


0, loss of larger in the less ! 


Boy who made dear his father's home, 


Was there no star that could be sent. 


In whose deep eyes 


No watcher in the firmament. 


Men read the welfare of the times to come, 


No angel from the countless host 


I am too much bereft. 


That loiters round the crystal coast. 


The world dishonored thou hast left. 


Could stoop to heal that only child. 


0, truth's and nature's costly lie! 


Nature's sweet marvel undefiled. 


0, trusted broken prophecy ! 


And keep the blossom of the earth. 


richest fortune sourly crossed ! 


Which all her harvests were not worth? 


Born for the future, to the Mure lost! 


Not mine — I never called thee mine, 




But Nature's heir — if I repine, 


The deep Heart answered, " Weepest thou? 


And seeing rashly torn and moved 


Worthier cause for passion wild 


Not what I made, but what I loved, 


If I had not taken the child. 


Grew early old with grief that thou 


And deemest thou as those who pore, 


Must to the wastes of Nature go — 


With aged eyes, short way before — 


'Tis because a general hope 


Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast 


Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope. 


Of matter, and thy darling lost ? 


For flattering planets seemed to say 


Taught he not thee — the man of eld, 


This child should ills of ages stay. 


Whose eyes within his eyes beheld 


By wondrous tongue, and guided pen. 


Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 


Bring the flown Muses back to men. 


The mystic gulf from God to man? 


Perchance not he, but Nature, ailed ; 


To be alone wilt thou begin 


The world and not the infant failed. 


When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? 


It was not ripe yet to sustain 


To-morrow when the masks shall fall 


A genius of so fine a strain, 


That dizen Nature's carnival, 


Who gazed upon the sun and moon 


The pure shall see by their own will, 


As if he came unto his own ; 


Which overflowing Love shall fiU, 


And, pregnant with his grander thought. 


'Tis not within the force of Fate 


Brought the old order into doubt. 


The fate-conjoined to separate. 



THRENODY. 173 


But thou, my votary, weepest thou ? 


Life is life which. generates; 


I gave thee sight — where is it now ? 


And many-seeming life is one — 


I taught thy heart beyond the reach 


Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? 


Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; 


Its onward force too starkly pent 


Wrote in thy mind's transparent table. 


In figure, bone, and lineament? 


As far as the incommunicable ; 


Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, 


Taught thee each private sign to raise, 


Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 


JAt by the super-solar blaze. 


Nor. see the genius of the whole 


Past utterance, and past belief, 


Ascendant in the private soul, 


And past the blasphemy of grief. 


Beckon it when to go and come, 


The mysteries of Nature's heart ; 


Self-announced its hour of doom? 


And though no Muse can these impart. 


Fair the soul's recess and shrine. 


Throb thine with ligature's throbbing breast, 


Magic-built to last a season ; 


And all is clear from east to west. 


Masterpiece of love benign ; 




Fairer than expansive reason, 


"I came to thee as to a friend ; 


Whose omen 'tis, and sign. 


Dearest, to thee I did not send 


Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know 


Tutors, but a joyful eye. 


What rainbows teach, and sunsets show? 


Innocence that matched the sky, 


Verdict which accumulates 


Lovely locks, a form of wonder. 


From lengthening scroll of human fates, 


Laughter rich as woodland thunder, 


Voice of earth to earth returned. 


That thou might'st entertain apart 


Prayers of saints that inly burned — 


The richest flowering of all art ; 


Saying, What is excellent, 


And, as the great all-loving Day 


As God lives, is permanent ; 


Through smallest chambers takes its way, 


Hearts a/re dust, Tiearti loves remain; 


That thou might'st break thy daily bread 


Hearts'' love will meet tliee again. 


With prophet, Saviour, and head ; 


Eevere the Maker ; fetch thine eye 


That thon might'st cherish for thine own 


Tip to his style, and manners of the sky. 


The riches of sweet Mary's son, 


Not of adamant and gold 


Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon. 


Built he heaven stark and cold ; 


And thoughtest thou such guest 


No, but a nest of bending reeds, 


Would in thy hall take up his rest? 


Flowering grass, and scented weeds ; 


Would rushing life forget her laws, 


Or like a traveller's fleeing tent. 


Fate's glowing revolution pause? 


Or bow above the tempest bent ; 


High omens ask diviner guess, 


Built of tears and sacred flames, 


Not to be conned to tediousness. 


And virtue reaching to its aims ; 


And know my higher gifts unbind 


Built of furtherance and pursuing, 


The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 


Not of spent deeds, but of doing. 


When the scanty shores are full 


Silent rushes the swift Lord 


With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; 


Through ruined systems still restored. 


When frail Nature can no more. 


Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless. 


Then the Spkit strikes the hour : 


Plants with worlds the wilderness ; 


My servant Death, with solving rite. 


Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 


Pours finite into infinite. 


Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 




House and tenant go to ground, 


"Wilt thou freeze Love's tidal flow. 


Lost in God, in Godhead found." 


Whose streams through Nature circling go? 


Ealph Wai-do Emeeson. 


Nail the wild star to its track 




On the half-climbed zodiac ? 
Light is light which radiates ; 


■■ 




Blood is blood which cu-culates ; 









174 POEMS OF 


OHILDHOOD. 




Do what I may, go where I will. 


OASA WAPPY.* 


Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still — 


And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
Our fond, dear boy — 


A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 


The realms where sorrow dare not come, 


Where life is joy ? 
Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, 


•' 7 

Casa Wappy ! 


Thy spirit caught no taint from earth; 




Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 


Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 


Casa "Wappy 1 


With glance of stealth ; 




The hair thrown back from thy full brow 


Despair was in our last farewell. 


In buoyant health ; 


As closed thine eye ; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 


I see thine eyes' deep violet light — 


Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright — 


When thou didst die ; 


Thy clasping arms so round and white — 


Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 




Of our unfathomed agony ; 


The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 


Oasa Wappy ! 


Thy bat^thy bow— 




Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball ; 


Thou wert a vision of delight. 


But where art thou ? 


To bless us given ; 


A corner holds thine empty chair ; 


Beauty embodied to our sight — 


Thy playthings, idly scattered there, 


A type of heaven ! 


But speak to us of our despair. 


So dear to us thou wert, thou art 


Casa Wappy ! 


Even less thine own self, than a part 




Of mine, and of thy Mother's heart. 


Even to the last, thy every word — 


Casa Wappy ! 


To glad — to grieve — 




Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 


Thy bright, brief day knew no decline — 


On Summer's eve ; 


'Twas cloudless joy ; 


In outward beauty undecayed, 


Sunrise and night alone were thine. 


Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade. 


Beloved boy ! 


•And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade. 


This moon beheld thee blythe and gay ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


That found thee prostrate in decay ; 




And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 


We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night 


Casa Wappy I 


The chamber fills ; 




We pine for thee, when morn's first light 


Gem of our hearth, our household pride. 


Eeddens the hills ; 


Earth's undefiled. 


The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea. 


Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. 


AU — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — 


Our dear, sweet child ! 


Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee. 


Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


Yet had we hoped that Time should see 




Thee mourn for us, not us for thee. 


And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 


Casa Wappy ! 


Of casual mirth. 




It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 




* The self-appellative of a beloved cliild. 


An inward birth ; 



MY CHILD 



175 



We miss thy small step on tlie stair ; — 
"We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; 
All day we miss thee — every where — 
Oasa Wappy ! 

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 

In life's spring-bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below — 

The silent tomb. 
But now the green leaves of the tree, 
The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," 
Eeturn — ^but with them bring not thee, 
Oasa "Wappy ! 

'Tis so ; but can it be — while flowers 

Eevive again — 
Man's doom, in death that we and ours 

For aye remain ? 
Oh ! can it be, that, o'er the grave. 
The grass renewed should yearly wave, 
Yet God forget our child to save ? — 
Oasa Wappy ! 

It cannot be ; for were it so 

Thus man could die. 
Life were a mockery — thought were woe — 

And truth a lie ; — 
Heaven were a coinage of the brain — 
Eeligion frenzy — virtue vain — 
And all our hopes to meet again, 
Oasa Wappy ! 

Then be to us, O dear, lost child ! 

With beam of love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ! 
Soon, soon, thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road. 
That led thee back from man to God, 
Oasa Wappy I 

Yet, 't is sweet balm to our despair, 

Fond, fairest boy. 
That Heaven is God's, and thou art there. 

With him in joy ; 
There past are death and all its woes ; 
There beauty's stream for ever flows ; 
And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 
Oasa Wappy ! 



Farewell then — for a while, farewell — 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell. 

Thus torn apart. 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be. 
Beyond the grave, I '11 meet with thee, 
Oasa Wappy ! 

David Macbeth Moie. 



MY OHILD. 

I CANNOT make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 

Yet, when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — ^he is not there ! 

I walk my parlour floor. 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 

I 'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — ^he is not there ! 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satchelled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair: 

And, as he 's running by. 

Follow him with my eye. 
Scarcely believing that — ^he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Olosed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental care. 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly. 
Before the thought comes that — ^lie is not 
there ! 



176 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that— he is not 
there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — ^he is not there ! 

Not there ! — ^Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; — ^he is not there ! 

He lives ! — ^In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last. 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there .'" 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Fathee, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit land. 

Meeting at thy right hand, 

'Twill be our heaven to find that — ^he is 

there ! 

John Pieepont. 



THE WIDOW AND CHILD. 

Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low. 
Called him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stept. 

Took a face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Kose a nurse of ninety years. 

Set his child upon her knee- 
Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

Alfeed TENirrsoN 



THE KEOONOILIATIOK 

As through the land at eve we went. 

And plucked the ripened ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, — 
O, we fell out, I know not why. 
And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O, there above the little grave. 

We kissed again with tears. 

Am-eed Tehnysok. 



PART III, 



POEMS OP FKIENDSHIP 



GiEB treulich mir die Hande, 
Sei Bruder mir, und wende 
Den Blick, vor deinem Ende, 
Mcht wieder weg von mir. 
Ein Tempel wo wir knien, 
Ein Ort wohin wir ziehen, 
Ein Grllick fur das wir gliihen, 
Ein Himmel mir und dir ! 

NOVALIS. 



Then let the chill sirocco blow 

And gird us round with hills of snow ; 

Or else go whistle to the shore, 

And make the hollow mountains roar. 

WhUst we together jovial sit 
Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit ; 
Where, though bleak winds confine us home, 
Our fancies round the world shall roam. 

We'll think of all the friends we know, 
And drink to all worth drinking to ; 
When, haying drank all thine and mine, 
We rather shall want health than wine. 

But where friends fail us, we '11 supply 
Our friendships with our charity ; 
Men that remote in sorrows live, 
Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. 

We '11 drink the wanting into wealth, 
And those that languish into health, 



The afflicted into joy, th' opprest 
Into security and rest. 

The worthy in disgrace shall find 
Favor return again more kind ; 
And in restraint who stifled lie, 
Shall taste the air of liberty. 

The brave shall triumph in success ; 
The lovers shall have mistresses ; 
Poor unregarded virtue, praise ; 
And the neglected poet, bays. 

Thus shall our healths do others good. 
Whilst we ourselves do all we would ; 
For, freed from envy and from care, 
What would we be, but what we are ? 

'T is the plump grape's immortal juice 
That does this happiness produce. 
And will preserve us free together, 
Maugre mischance, or wind and weather. 

Chaeles Cotton. 



12 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



EAELY FEIENDSHIP. 

The half-seen memories of cMldish days, 
When pains and pleasures lightly came and 

went; 
The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
In fearful wanderings through forbidden 

ways; 
The vague, but manly, wish to tread the maze 
Of life to noble ends ; whereon intent, 
Asking to know for what man here is sent. 
The bravest heart must often pause, and 

gaze — 
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 
Of manhood's judgment, cautious a,nd mature : 
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to 

friend 
"With strength no selfish purpose can secure ; — 
My happy lot is this, that all attend 
That friendship which first came, and which 

shall last endure. 

Attbeet db Vebe. 



WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET 
AGAIN i. 

Whex shall we three meet again ? 
When shall we three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire. 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
Ere we three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lands we sigh, 
Parched beneath a hostile sky ; 



Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls. 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled. 
When its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold oblivion's shade. 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
Where immortal spirits reign. 
There shall we three meet again. 

Anonymoits. 



FROM "IN MEMOEIAM." 

I EiSTY not, in any moods, 
The captive void of noble rage, • 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods. 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfettered by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth — 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall — 
I feel it, when I sorrow most — 
'T is better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all. 



180 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


With trembling fingers did we weave 


Who makes by force his merit known, 


The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 


And lives to clutch the golden keys — 


A rainy cloud possessed the earth 


To mould a mighty state's decrees, 


And sadly fell our Christmas eve. 


And shape the whisper of the throne ; 


At our old pastimes m the hall 


And moving up from high to higher, 


We gambolled, making vain pretence 


Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 


Of gladness, with an awful sense 


The pillar of a people's hope, 


Of one mute Shadow watching alh 


The centre of a world's desire ; 


We paused ; the winds were in the beech — 


Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 


We heard them sweep the winter land ; 


When all his active powers are still, 


And in a circle hand in hand 


A distant dearness in the hill, 


Sat silent, looking each at each. 


A secret sweetness in the stream, 


Then echo-like our voices rang ; 


The limit of his narrower fate, 


We sang, though every eye was dim — 


While yet beside its vocal springs 


A merry song we sang with him 


He played at counsellors and kings, 


Last year : impetuously we sang ; 


With one that was his earliest mate; 


We ceased. A gentler feeling crept 


Who ploughs with pain his native lea, 


Upon us ; surely rest is meet ; 


And reaps the labor of his hands, 


" They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet." 


Or in the furrow musing stands : 


A.nd silence followed, and we wept. 


"Does my old friend remember me?" 


Our voices took a higher range ; 





Once more we sang: "They do not die. 


Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor 


Nor lose then- mortal sympathy, 


Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright , 


Nor change to us, although they change: 


And thou, with all thy breadth and height 




Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 


"Rapt from the fickle and the frail, 




With gathered power, yet the same, 


How often, hither wandering dovm, 


Pieces the keen seraphic flame 


My Arthur found your shadows fair, 


From orb to orb, from veil to veil. 


And shook to aU the liberal air 




The dust and din and steam of town ! 


"Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn! 




Draw forth the cheerful day from night ! 


He brought an eye for all he saw ; 


Father ! touch the east, and light 


He mixed in all our simple sports ; 


The light that shone when Hope was born ! " 


They pleased him, fresh from brawling 




courts 




And dusky purlieus of the law. 


DosT thou look back on what hath been, 


joy to him, in this retreat, 


As some divinely gifted man, 


Immantled in ambrosial dark. 


Whose life in low estate began, 


To drink the cooler air, and mark 


And on a simple village green? 


The landscape winking through the heat 


Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 


sound to rout the brood of cares. 


And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 


The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 


And breasts the blows of circumstance, 


The gust that round the garden flew. 


And grapples with his evil star ; 


And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 



FROM "IN MEMORIAM.' 



181 



O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About Mm, heart and ear were fed, 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn ; 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp, and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon ! 

Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods. 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

"Whereat we glanced from theme to theme. 
Discussed the books to love or hate. 
Or touched the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream. 

But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still, 
For " ground in yonder social mill, 

"We rub each other's angles down, 

"And merge," he said, "in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
"We talked ; the stream beneath us ran. 

The wine-flask lying couched in moss. 

Or cooled within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fallen into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle deep in flowers, 
"We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 



Thy converse drew us with delight. 
The men of rathe and riper years ; 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears ; 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 
The proud was half disarmed of pride ; 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 



The stern were'mild when thou wert by ; 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee ; and the brazen fool 

"Was softened, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy dearest sat apart, 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill. 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



Deae friend, far ofij my lost desire, 
So far, so near, in woe and weal ; 
O, loved the most when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown, human, divine ! 
Sweet human hand and lips and eye, 
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die. 

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ! 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be, 
Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 
Behold I dream a dream of good 

And mingle all the world with thee. 



Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun. 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou, then ? I cannot guess ; 
But though I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee, some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Though mixed with God and Nature thou 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice. 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee, though I die. 

AiFKED Tennyson, 



182 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP, 



THE FIKE OF DKIFT-WOOD. 

"We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

I^ot far away we saw the port, — 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, — 

The light-house, — the dismantled fort, — 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight — 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

"We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said. 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends. 
When first they feel, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends. 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 
Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed. 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, — 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 



The windows, rattling in their frames, — 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, — 

The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, — 

The long-lost ventures of the heart. 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned I 

They were indeed too much akin — 
The drift- wood fire without that burned. 
The thoughts that burned and glowed 
within. 

Heitet Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



THE PASSAGE. 

Many a year is in its grave. 
Since I crossed the restless wave ; 
And the evening, fair as ever. 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then in this same boat beside 
Sat two comrades old and tried — 
One with all a father's truth. 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his grave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

So, whene'er I turn my eye 

Back upon the days gone by, 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me. 

Friends that closed their course before me. 

But what binds us, friend to friend. 
But that soul with soul can blend ? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, — 

Take, I give it willingly ; 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 

Lttdwig TThland. (German.) 
Anonymous Translation. 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 



185 



OAPE-COTTAGE AT SimSET. 

We stood upon the ragged rocks, 
When tlie long day was nearly done ; 

The waves had ceased their sullen shocks, 
And lapped our feet with murmuring tone, 

And o'er the hay in streaming locks 
Blew the red tresses of the sun. 

Along the West the golden hars 

Still to a deeper glory grew ; 
Above our heads the faint, few stars 

Looked out from the unfathomed blue ; 
And the fair city's clamorous jars 

Seemed melted in that evening hue. 

sunset sky ! O purple tide ! 

O friends to friends that closer pressed ! 
Those glories have in darkness died. 
And ye have left my longing breast. 

1 could not keep you by my side, 
Nor fix that radiance in the West. 

Upon those rocks the waves shall beat 
With the same low and murmuring strain ; 

Across those waves, with glancing feet, 
The sunset rays shall seek the main ; 

But when together shall we meet 
Upon that far-off shore again ? 

W. B. Gt.azteb. 



THE OLD FAMTLIAB FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had com- 
panions. 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 



All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 

cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see 

her; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



I have a friend,^ a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly — 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my 
childhood. 

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to tra- 
verse, 

Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a bro- 
ther, 

Why wert not thou born in my father's 
dwelling ? 

So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they 
have left me, 

And some are taken from me; aU are de- 
parted, 

All, aU are gone, the old familiar faces ! 

Chaeles Lamb. 



WE HAVE BEEN FEIEISTDS TOGETHER. 

We have been friends together. 

In sunshine and in shade ; 
Since first beneath the chestnut trees 

In infancy we played. 
But coldness dwells within thy heart — 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together — 

Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been gay together ; 

We have laughed at little jests ; 
For the fount of hope was gushing, 

Warm and joyous, in our breasts. 
But laughter now hath fled thy lip. 

And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
We have been gay together — 

Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been sad together — 
We have wept, with bitter tears. 

O'er the grass-grown graves, where slum- 
bered 
The hopes of early years. 



184 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


The voices wliicli are silent there 


The same my sire scanned before. 


Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 


The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 


"We have been sad together — 


The same his sire from college bore. 


! what shall part us now ? 


The well-earned meed 


Oaeounh Noeton. 


Of Oxford's domes : 




Old HoMEE blind. 
Old Horace, rake Anaceeon, by 






Old TuLLT, Plauttjs, Teeenoe lie ; 




Mort Aethtje'b olden minstrelsie. 


GIVE ME THE OLD. 


Quaint Btjeton, quainter Spensee, ay ! 




And Geevase Maekham's venerie — 


OLD WINE TO DEINK:, OLD WOOD TO BUEN, OLD 


ISTor leave behind 


BOOKS TO BEAD, AND OLD FEIENDS TO OON- 


The Holye Book by which we live and die. 


VEESE WITH. 




I. 


IV. 


Old wine to drinV ! — 


Old friends to talk !— 


Ay, give the slippery juice 


Ay, bring those chosen few, 


That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 


The wise, the courtly, and the true. 


Within the tun ; 


So rarely found ; 


Plucked from beneath the cliff 


Him for my wine, him for my stud. 


Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 


Him for my easel, distich, bud 


And ripened 'neath the blink 


In mountain walk ! 


Of India's sun ! 


Bring Waltee good : 


Peat whiskey hot, 


With soulful Feed ; and learned Will, 


Tempered with well-boiled water ! 


And thee, my alter ego^ (dearer still 


These make the long night shorter, — 


For every mood). 


Forgetting not 


EOBEET HlNOKLEY MeSSINGEE. 


Good stout old English porter. 


, 


n. 

Old wood to burn ! — 


SPARKXmG AND BRIGHT. 


Av, bring the hill-side beech 




From where the owlets meet and screech, 


SpAEKLiNa and bright in liquid light, 


And ravens croak ; 


Does the wine our goblets gleam in ; 


The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 


With hue as red as the rosy bed 


Bring too a clump of fragrant peat. 


Which a bee would choose to dream in. 


Dug 'neath the fern ; 


Then Jill to-night, with hearts as light. 


The knotted oak. 


To loves as gay and fleeting 


A faggot too, perhap. 


As IvMles that swim on the leaTcer^s Irim, 


Whose bright flame, dancing, winking. 


And Irealc on the lips while meeting. 


Shall light us at our drinking ; 




While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 


! if Mirth might arrest the flight 


o 


Of Time through Life's dominions. 




We here a while would now beguile 


in. 


The graybeard of his pinions. 


Old books to read ! — 


To drinh to-night, with hearts as light, 


Ay, bring those nodes of wit. 


To loves as ga/y and fleeting 


The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, 


As hubbies that swim on the teaTcer^s hrim. 


Time honored tomes I 


And IreaTc on the lips while meetina 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 186 


But since Delight can't tempt the wight, 


Say, why did Time 


Kor fond Eegret delay him, 


His glass sublime 


Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 


Fill up with sands unsightly. 


Nor sober Friendship stay him, 


When wine he knew 


WeHl drinh to-night, with hearts as light, 


Kuns brisker through. 


To loves as gay and fleeting 


And sparkles far more brightly? 


As 'hvMles that swim on the tea'ker's drim, 


Oh, lend it us. 


And IreaTc on the lips while meeting. 


And, smiling thus. 


Chaeles Fenno Hoffman. 


The glass in two we 'd sever. 




Make pleasure glide 




In double tide. 
And fill both ends for ever ! 




WEEATHE THE BOWL. 


Then wreathe the bowl 




With flowers of soul, 


"Weeathe the bowl 


The brightest Wit can find us; 


With flowers of soul. 


We '11 take a flight 


The brightest Wit can find us ; 


Towards heav'n to-night, 


We'll take a flight 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


Towards heav'n to-night. 


Thomas Moobe. 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 
Should Love amid 






The wreaths be hid 




That Joy, the enchanter, brings us. 


CHAMPAGNE KOSIE! 


No danger fear 




While wine is near — 


TiH.T on liquid roses floating — 


We'll drown him if he stings us. 


So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne — 


Then wreathe the bowl 


Fain would I join such pleasant boating. 


With flowers of soul, 


And prove that ruby main. 


The brightest Wit can find us ; 


And float away on wine ! 


We '11 take a flight 




Towards heav'n to-night. 


Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear— 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ; 


'Twas nectar fed 


And true it is they drown old Care — 


Of old, 'tis said. 


But what care we for him. 


Their Junos, Joves, ApoUos ; 


So we but float on wine ! 


And man may brew 




His nectar too ; 


And true it is they cross in pain. 


The rich receipt's as follows: — 


Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 


Take wine like this ; 


But only make our Styx champagne. 


Let looks of bliss 


And we shall cross right merry, 


Around it well be blended; 


Floating away in wine ! 


Then bring Wit's beam 




To warm the stream, 

And there 's your nectar, splendid ! 

So wreathe the bowl 


Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
Then gayly row his boat from shore ; 


With flowers of soul. 


While we, and every jovial fellow. 


The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We 'U take a flight . 


Hear, unconcerned, the oar. 
That dips itself in wine ! 


Towards heav'n to-night, 


John Kenton. 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


^ 





186 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 




Fill the bumper fair ! 


FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 


Every drop we sprinkle 




O'er the brow of Care 


Fill the bumper fair ! 


Smooths away a wrinkle. 


Every drop we sprinkle 


Thomas Mooeb. 


O'er the brow of care 
Smooths away a wrinkle. 




• 


"Wit's electric flame 




ISTe'er so swiftly passes 


AKD DOTH NOT A MEETD^G LIKE 


As when through the frame 


THIS. 


It shoots from brimming glasses. 


And doth not a meeting like this make 


Fill the bumper fair ! 


amends 


Every drop we sprinkle 


For all the long years I've been wand'rmg 


O'er the brow of care 


away — 


Smooths away a wrinkle. 


To see thus around me my youth's early 




friends. 


Sages can, they say, 


As smiling and kind as in that happy day? 


Grasp the lightning's pinions, 


Though haply o'er some of your brows, as 


And bring down its ray 


o'er mine, 


From the starred dominions: — 


The snow-fall of Time may be stealing— what 


So we, sages, sit, 


then? 


And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, 


Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine. 


From the heaven of wit 


We '11 wear the gay tinge of Youth's roses 


Draw down all its lightning. 


again. 


Wouldst thou know what first 


What softened remembrances come o'er the 


Made our souls inherit 


heart, 


This ennobling thirst 


In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! 


For wine's celestial spirit ? 


The sorrows, the joys, of which once they 


It chanced upon that day, 


were part. 


Wlien, as bards inform us, 


StiU round them, like visions of yesterday. 


Prometheus stole away 


throng ; 


The living fires that warm us : 


As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, 




When held to the flame will steal out on the 


The careless Youth, when up 


sight, 


To Glory's fount aspiring, 


So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced, 


Took nor urn nor cup 


The warmth of a moment like this brings to 


To hide the pilfered fire in. — 


light. 


But oh his joy, when, round 




The halls of heaven spying 


And thus, as in memory's bark we shall gHde, 


Among the stars, he found 


To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, 


A bowl of Bacchus lying ! 


Though oft we may see, looking down on the 

firlp 


Some drops were in that bowl. 


tlvlc. 

The wreck of full many a hope shining 


Remains of last night's pleasure, 


through ; 


With which the sparks of soul 


Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers 


Mixed their burning treasure. 


That once made a garden of all the gay shore, 


Hence the goblet's shower 


Deceived for a moment, we'U think them 


Hath such spells to win us ; 


still ours. 


Hence its mighty power 


And breathe the fresh air of Life's morning 


O'er that flame within us. 


once more. 



CONVIVIAL SONGS. 187 


So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most. 


Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 


Is all we can have of the few we hold dear ; 


'Tis he, you or I! 


And oft even joy is unheeded and lost 


Cold, hot, wet or dry. 


For want of some heart that could echo it, 


We're always bound to follow, boys, 


near. 


And scorn to fly. 


Ah, well may we hope, when this short life 




is gone, 


'Tisbut in vain — 


To meet in some world of more permanent 


I mean not to upbraid you, boys — 


bliss; 


'Tis but in vain 


For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning 


For soldiers to complain : 


on. 


Should next campaign 


Is aU we enjoy of each other in this. 


Send us to Him who made us, boys, 




We 're free from pain ! 


But, come, the more rare such delights to the 


But if we remain. 


heart. 


A bottle and a kind landlady 


The more we should welcome, and bless them 


Cure all again. 

Anonymous. 


the more ; 




They're ours, when we meet — they are lost 




when we part — 




Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when 




'tis o'er. 


COME, SEM) EOUND THE WINE. 


Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we 




drink, 


Come, send round the wine, and leave points 


Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure. 


of belief 


through pain. 


To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; 


That, fast as a feeling but touches one link. 


This moment 's a flower too fair and brief 


Her magic shall send it direct through the 


To be withered and stained by the dust of the 


chain. 


schools. 


Thomas Mooeb. 


Your glass may be purple, and mine may be 




blue. 
But while they are fiUed from the same bright 






bowl, 


HOW STANDS THE GLASS AEOUISTD? 


The fool who would quarrel for difference of 

hue 
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the 


How stands the glass around? 


For shame ye take no care, my boys ; 


soul. 


How stands the glass around? 




Let mirth and wine abound. 
The trumpets sound ; 


Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by 

my side. 
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and 

tried. 
If he kneel not before the same altar with 


The colors they are flying, boys. 
To fight, kill, or wound. 
May we still be found 


Content with our hard fare, my boys. 


On the cold ground. 


me? 




From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly 


Why, soldiers, why. 


To seek somewhere else a more orthodox 


Should we be melancholy, boys ? 


kiss? 


Why, soldiers, why? 


No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try 


Whose business 'tis to die ! 


Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this ! 


What, sighing? fie! 


Thomas Moose. 



188 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



FRIEND OF MY SOUL. 

Feeend of my soul ! tliis goblet sip — 

'T will chase the pensive tear ; 
'T is not so sweet as woman's lip, 

But, ! 't is more sincere. 
Like her delusive beam, 

'T will steal away the mind. 
But like affection's dream. 

It leaves no sting behind. 

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade — 

These flowers were culled at noon ; 
Like woman's love the rose will fade, 

But ah ! not half so soon : 
For though the flower's decayed. 

Its fragrance is not o'er ; 
But once when love's betrayed, 

The heart can bloom no more. 

Thomas Mooeb. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee ! 

Here 's a sigh for those that love me, 
And a smile for those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky 's above me, 
Here 's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it stiU shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

"With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — Peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore I 

LoKD Byeon. 



FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU 
WELCOME THE HOUR. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the 

hovtt 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 

bower. 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed 

it too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 

you. 
His griefs may return — ^not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway 

of pain — 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him while lingering 

with yon ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure 

fllls up 
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and 

each cup. 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. 
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you 

that night — 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and 

your wiles, 
And return to me beaming aU o'er with your 

smiles ; 
Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay 

cheer. 
Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he 

were here ! " 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot 

destroy ! 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and 

care. 
And bring back the features that joy used to 

wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories 

filled! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been 

distiUed ; 
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you 

will, 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it 

still. 

Thomas Mooee. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE, 



189 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For wMcli no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue N'euve des petits Champs its name is — 

The ¥ew Street of the Little Fields ; 
And there 's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case — 
The which in youth I oft attended. 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terre's tavern. 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is ; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

"Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Tes, here the lamp is as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He 'd come and smile before your table. 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

"We enter ; nothing 's changed or older. 

"How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre 's run his race ! " 
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you stiU cook Bouillabaisse ? " 

" Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; 

" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il f " 
" TeU me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 



" So Terre's gone^' I say, and sink in 
My old accustomed corner-place ; 

"He 's done with feasting and with drinking. 
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is — 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luogJii^ 

I 'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fog j, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I '11 pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There 's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There 's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There 's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There 's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing. 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that 's gone, 
When here I 'd sit, as now I 'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. 

— There 's no one now to share my cup. 

'i* 'K n* *?• 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 
William Makepeace Thaokeeat. 



190 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



FILL THE WINE-CUP HIGH ! 

O FILL the wine-cnp high I 

The sparkling liquor pour ; 
For we will care and grief defy, 

They ne'er shall plague us more 
And ere the snowy foam 

From off the wine departs, 
The precious draught shall find a home, 

A dwelling in our hearts. 

• 

Though bright may he the beams 

That woman's eyes display : 
They are not like the ruby gleams 

That in our goblets play. 
For though surpassing bright 

Their brilliancy may be, 
Age dims the lustre of their light 

But adds more worth to thee. 

Give me another draught. 

The sparkling, and the strong ; 
He who would learn the poet craft — 

He who would shine in song — 
Should pledge the flowing bowl 

With warm and generous wine ; 
'Twas wine that warmed Anacreon's soul, 

And made his songs divine. 

And e'en in tragedy. 

Who lives that never knew 
The honey of the Attic Bee 

Was gathered from thy dew ? 
He of the tragic muse, 

Whose praises bards rehearse ; 
What power but thine could e'er diffuse 

Such sweetness o'er his verse ? 

O would that I could raise 

The magic of that tongue ; 
The spirit of those deathless lays, 

The Swan of Teios sung ! 
Each song the bard has given 

Its beauty and its worth. 
Sounds sweet as if a voice from heaven 

Was echoed upon the earth. 

How mighty — ^how divine. 

Thy spirit seemeth when 
The rich draught of the purple vine 

Dwelt in these godlike men. 



It made each glowing page, 

Its eloquence, and truth. 
In the glory of their golden age. 

Outshine the fire of youth. 

Joy to the lone heart — -joy 

To the desolate — oppressed ; 
For wine can every grief destroy 

That gathers in the breast. 
The sorrows and the care. 

That in our hearts abide, 
'Twill chase them from their dwellings 
there, 

To drown them in its tide. 

And now the heart grows warm 

With feelings undefined, 
Throwing their deep diffusive chara 

O'er all the realms of mind. 
The loveliness of truth 

Flings out its brightest rays. 
Clothed in the songs of early youth, 

Or joys of other days. 

We think of her, the young. 

The beautiful, the bright, 
We hear the music of her tongue. 

Breathing its deep delight. 
We see again each glance. 

Each bright and dazzling beam. 
We feel our throbbing hearts still dance, 

We live but in a dream. 

From darkness, and from woe, 

A power like lightning darts * 
A glory Cometh down to throw 

Its shadows o'er our hearts ; 
And dimmed by falling tears, 

A spirit seems to rise. 
That shows the friend of other years 

Is mirrored in our eyes. 

But sorrow, grief, and care. 

Had dimmed his setting star ; 
And we think with tears of those that 
were, 

To smile on those that are. 
Yet though the grassy mound 

Sits lightly on his head. 
We '11 pledge, in solemn silence round, 

The memory of the dead! 



SAINT PERAY. 



191 



The sparkling juice now ponr, 

"With fond and liberal hand ; 
O raise the laughing rim once more, 

Here 's to our Fatherland ! 
Up, every soul that hears. 

Hurrah ! with three times three ; 
And shout aloud, with deafening cheers, 

The " Island of the Free ! " 

Then jBU the wine-cup high. 

The sparkling liquor pour ; 
For we will care and grief defy. 

They ne'er shall plague us more, 
And ere the snowy foam 

From off the wine departs. 
The precious draught shall find a home — 

A dwelling in our hearts. 

EOBEET FOLKESTOKE "WiLLIAMS. 



SAIl^T PEEAY. 

ADDEESSED TO H. T. P. 

When- to any saint I pray. 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic, faint and sick, 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick : 
He was holy, sure, and wise ; — 
"Was 't not he that did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries ? — 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

'Next, in pleasant Kormandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
But, how I was swindled there 

At the " Golden Fleece,"— he knows ! 

In my wanderings, vague and various, 
Eeaching ITaples — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Januarius. 



But I was a fool to try him ; 
Naught I said could liquefy him ; 
And I swear he did me wrong. 
Keeping me shut up so long 
In that pest-house, with obscene 
Jews and Greeks and things unclean — 
What need had I of quarantine ? 

In Sicily at least a score — 
In Spain about as many more — 
And in Eome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
Devil take the tribe ! — said I. 

Worn with travel, tired and lame. 

To Assisi's walls I came : 

Sad and full of homesick fancies, 

I addressed me to Saint Francis ; 

But the beggar never did 

Any thing as he was bid, 

Never gave me aught — ^but fleas — 

Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Yaucluse, 

Hard by the Ehone, I found a Saint 
Gifted with a wondrous juice, 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first — 
In the witching time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Though tUl then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips. 
All saints else were m eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 

With such magic into mine. 
That methought such bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 

Eest he gave me, and refection — 

Chastened hopes, calm retrospection — 

Softened images of sorrow. 

Bright forebodings for the morrow — 

Charity for what is past — 

Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanack 
The name of this good creature lack? 



192 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Or wherefore should the breviary 
Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 
The Pope himself should grant a day 
Especially to Saint Peray. 
But, since no day hath been appointed, 
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed, 
Let us not wait — we '11 do him right ; 
Send round your bottles, Hal — and set 
your night. 

Thomas William Paesons. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And days o' lang syne ? 
For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne ! 

n. 
We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we 've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roared 

Sin auld lang syne. 

rv. 

And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie 's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'U tak a right guid willie-waught 

For auld lang syne ! 

V. 

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp. 

And surely I '11 be mine ; 
And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne ! 

EOBEET BtTENS. 



NIGHT AT SEA. 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 
Has vanished from the waters, where it 
flung 
A royal color, such as gems are throwing 

Tyrian or regal garniture among. 
'T is night, and overhead the sky is gleaming. 
Thro' the slight vapor trembles each dim 
star; 
I turn away— my heart is sadly dreaming 
Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

By each dark wave around the vessel sweep- 
ing, 
Farther am I from old dear Mends re- 
moved ; 
Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping, 
I did not know how much you were be- 
loved. 
How many acts of kindness little heeded. 
Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproach- 
ful now ! 
Hurried and anxious, my vexed life has 
speeded, 
And memory wears a soft accusing brow. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

The very stars are strangers, as I catch them 
Athwart the shadowy sails that swell 
above ; 
I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them 

At the same moment with a mutual love. 
They shine not there, as here they now are 
shining ; 
The very hours are changed. — ^Ah, do ye 
sleep ? 
O'er each home pillow midnight is declining — 
May some kind dream at least my image 
keep! 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

Yesterday has a charm, To-day could never 
Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till 
it parts 



NIGHT AT SEA. I93 


How it turns back with tenderest endeavor 


Like some new island on the ocean spring- 


To fix the past within the heart of hearts. 


ing, 


Absence is full of memory, it teaches 


Floats on the surface some gigantic whale. 


The value of all old familiar things ; 


From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, 


The strengthener of affection, while it 


Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. 


reaches 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


O'er the dark parting, with an angel's 


I read such fairy legends while with 


wings. 


you. 


My friends, my absent friends ! 




Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 


Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading, 




The moon is whitening the dusky sails, 


The world, with one vast element omitted — 


From the thick bank of clouds she masters. 


Man's own especial element, the earth ; 


shedding 


Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 


The softest influence that o'er night pre- 


By that great knowledge whence has power 


vails. 


its birth. 


Pale is she like a young queen pale with 


How oft on some strange loveliness while 


splendor, 


gazing. 


Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, 


Have I wished for you — ^beautifal as new, 


too deep ; 


The purple waves like some wild army rais- 


The very glory that she wears is tender. 


ing 


The very eyes that watch her beauty fain 


. Their snowy banners as the ship cuts 


would weep. 


through. 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 


Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 






Sunshine is ever cheerfal, when the morning 


Bearing upon its wings the hues of morn- 


Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling 


ing, 


eyes ; 


Tip springs the flying fish like life's false 


The spu-its mount to glad endeavor, scorning 


joj, 


What toil upon a path so sunny lies. 


Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorn- 


Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their 


ing 


weather 


Whose very light is fated to destroy. 


Calls into life an energy like Spring's ; 


Ah, so doth genius on its rainbow pinion 


But memory and moonlight go together, 


Spring from the depths of an unkindly 


Eefiected in the light that either brings. 


world ; 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


So spring sweet fancies from the heart's 


Do you think of me, then ? I think 


dominion — 


of you. 


Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is 




furled. 


The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


waking 


Whate'er I see is linked with thoughts 


But the watch pacing silently and slow ; 


of you. 


The waves against the sides incessant break- 

in<T> 


No life is in the air, but in the waters 


And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. 


Are creatures, huge, and terrible and 


The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pin 


strong ; 


nacle 


The sword-fish and the shark pursue their 


Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; 


slaughters, 


While red and fitful gleams come from the 


War universal reigns these depths along. 
13 


binnacle. 



194 POEMS OP PRIENDSHIP. 


The only light on board to guide us— 


Here we carouse. 


where ? 


Singing, like them. 


My friends, my absent friends I 


Perched round the stem 


Far from my native land, and far from 


Of the joUy old tree. 


you. 






Here let us sport. 


On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's 


Boys, as we sit — 


shimmer 


Laughter and wit 


In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea, 


Flashing so free. 


But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale 


Life is but short — 


glimmer 


"When we are gone. 


Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves 


Let them sing on, 


to be. 


Eound the old tree. 


All that the spirit keeps of thought and feel- 




ing, 
Takes visionary hues from such an hour ; 
But whUe some phantasy is o'er me stealing, 
I start — remembrance has a keener power : 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
From the fair dream I start to think 


Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
"Kind hearts and true, 


of you. 


Gentle and just. 
Peace to your dust I 


A dusk line in the moonlight — ^I discover 


We sing round the tree. 


What all day long vainly I sought to catch ; 




Oi* is it but the varying clouds that hover 


Care, like a dun, 


Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that 


Lurks at the gate : 


watch ? 


Let the dog wait ; 


Ko; well the sailor knows each speck, ap- 


Happy we '11 be ! 


pearing. 


Drink, every one ; 


Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand ; 


Pile up the coals ; 


To that dark line our eager ship is steering. 


Fill the red bowls. 


Her voyage done — to-morrow we shall 


Bound the old tree! 


land. 




L^TTTIA EUZABBTH MaCLKAW. 


Drain we the cup. — 




Friend, art afraid ? 


^ 


Spirits are laid 






In the Red Sea. 


THE MAHOGANY TPvEE. 


Mantle it up ; 




Empty it yet ; 


Cheistmas is here ; 


Let us forget, 


"Winds whistle shrill. 


Round the old tree. 


Icy and chiU, 




Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
"Weather without, 
Sheltered about 


Sorrows, begone! 
Life and its ills. 
Duns and their bills. 
Bid we to flee. 


The Mahogany Tree. 


Come with the dawn, 


Once on the boughs 


Blue-devil sprite ; 


Birds of rare plume 


Leave us to-night. 


Sang, in its bloom ; 


Round the old tree ! 


Night-birds are we ; 


William Makepeace Thackeray. 



CHRISTMAS. 



196 



UNDER TEE HOLLY BOUGH. 



A BONa FOE OHEISTMAS. 



Ye who have scorned eacli other, 
Or injured Mend or brother, 
In this fast fading year ; 
Ye who, by word or deed. 
Have made a kind heart bleed, 
Come gather here ! 
Let sinned against, and sinning. 
Forget their strife's beginning, 
And join in friendship now — 
Be links no longer broken ; — 
Be sweet forgiveness spoken 
Under the Holly Bough. 



Ye who have loved each other, 
Sister, and friend, and brother. 
In this fast fading year : 
Mother and sire and child, 
Young man, and maiden mUd, 
Come gather here ; 
And let your hearts grow fonder. 
As memory shall ponder 
Each past unbroken vow. 
Old loves and younger wooing 
Are sweet in the renewing. 
Under the Holly Bough. 

in. 
Ye who have nourished sadness, 
Estranged from hope and gladness. 
In this fast fading year ; 
Ye with o'erburdened mind 
Made aliens from your kind. 
Come gather here. 
Let not the useless sorrow 
Pursue you night and morrow. 
If e'er you hoped, hope now — 
Take heart ; — ^uncloud your faces. 
And join in our embraces 
Under the Holly Bough. 

Chablbs Maokat. 



CHEISTMAS. 

So now is come our joyfal'st feast ; 

Let every man be jolly ; 
Each room with ivy leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Though some churls at our mirth repine. 
Round your foreheads garlands twine, 
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine. 

And let us all be merry. 

Now aU our neighbors' chimneys smoke. 
And Christmas blocks are burning ; 

Their ovens they with baked meat choke. 
And aU their spits are turning. 

"Without the door let sorrow lie ; 

And if for cold it hap to die. 

We 'U bury 't in a Christmas pie. 
And evermore be merry. 



Now every lad is wond'rous trim. 
And no man minds his labor ; 

Our lasses have provided them 
A bagpipe and a tabor ; 

Young men and maids, and girls and 

Give life to one another's joys ; 

And you anon shall by their noise 
Perceive that they are merry. 



Rank misers now do sparing shun— 

Their hall of music soundeth ; 
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run. 

So all things there aboundeth. 
The country folks themselves advance, 
With crowdy-muttons out of France ; 
And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance, 

And aU the town be merry. 

Ned Squash has fetched his bands from pawn, 

And all his best apparel ; 
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn 

With dropping of the barrel. 
And those that hardly all the year 
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear. 
Will have both clothes and dainty fare. 

And all the day be merry. 

Now poor men to the justices 
With capons make their errants ; 

And if they hap to fail of these, 
They plague them with their warrants : 



196 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


But now they feed them with good cheer, 


Then wherefore, in these merry days. 


And what they want they take in beer ; 


Should we, I pray, be duller ? 


For Christmas comes but once a year, 


No let us sing some roundelays. 


And then they shall be merry. 


To make our mirth the fuller : 




And, while we thus inspired sing, 


Good farmers in the country nurse 


Let all the streets with echoes ring ; 


The poor, that else were undone ; 
Some landlords spend their money worse, 


"Woods and hills, and every thing. 
Bear witness we are merry ! 

GeOEGE "WirTTRR. 


On lust and pride at London. 
There the roysters they do play, 


Drab and dice their lands away, 
Which may be ours another day, 






And therefore let 's be merry. 




The client now his suit forbears ; 


WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 


The prisoner's heart is eased ; 




The debtor drinks away his cares, 


"What might be done if men were wise — 


And for the time is pleased. 


"What glorious deeds, my suffering brother. 


Though others' purses be more fat, 


"Would they unite 


"Why should we pine or grieve at that ? 


In love and right, 


Hang sorrow ! Care will kill a cat — 


And cease their scorn of one another? 


And therefore let 's be merry. 




Hark ! now the wags abroad do caJl 


Oppression's heart might be imbued 


Each other forth to rambling ; 


"With kindling drops of loving-kindness ; 


Anon you'll see them in the haU, 


And knowledge pour. 


For nuts and apples scrambling. 


From shore to shore, 


Hark ! how the roofs with laughter sound ! 


Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 


Anon they '11 think the house goes round, 




For they the cellar's depth have found. 
And there they will be merry. 


AU slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs. 
All vice and crime, might die together ; 


The wenches with their wassail bowls 


And wine and corn, 


About the streets are singing ; 


To each man born, 


The boys are come to catch the owls 


Be free as warmth in summer weather. 


The wild mare in is bringing. 




Our kitchen boy hath broke his box ; 


The meanest wretch that ever trod. 


And to the dealing of the ox 


The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow. 


Our honest neighbors come by flocks, 


Might stand erect 


And here they will be merry. 


In self-respect. 


Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have, 


And share the teeming world to-morrow. 


And mate with every body ; 




The honest now may play the knave, 


"What might be done ? This might be done. 


And wise men play the noddy. 


And more than this, my suffering brother- 


Some youths will now a mumming go, 


More than the tongue 


Some others play at Eowland-bo, 


E'er said or sung. 


And twenty other game boys mo, 


If men were wise and loved each other. 


Because they will be merry. 


CnAELES Maokay. 



I 



PART IV. 
POEMS OF LOVE. 



Love ? I will tell thee what it is to love ! 

It is to btiild with human thoughts a shrine, 

Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove ; 

Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine. • 

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 

To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. 

Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine ; 

Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss ; 

And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this. 

Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true, 

The immortal glory which hath never set ; 

The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew : 

Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet ! 

! who but can recall the eve they met 

To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow ? 

While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, 

And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow, 

And all was rapture then which is but memory now ! 

Chaeles SwAur. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 


SIR OAULINE. 


" Fetche me downe my daughter deere, 




She is a leeche fuUe fine ; 


THE FIEST PAET. 


Goe take him doughe and the baken bread. 


In Ireland, ferr over the sea, 


And serve him with the wyne soe red : 


There dwelleth a bonnye kinge ; 


Lothe I were him to tine." 


And with him a yong and comlye knighte, 




Men call him Syr Oauline. 


Fair Ohristabelle to his chaumber goes. 




Her maydens foHowyng nye : 


The kinge had a ladye to his daughter, 


"0 well," she sayth, "how doth my lord?' 


In fashyon she hath no peere ; 


"0 sicke, thou fayr ladye." 


And princely wightes that ladye wooed 




To be theyr wedded fere. 


"Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, 


Syr Oanh'ne loveth her best of all, 

But nothing dnrst he saye, 
Fe descreeve his connsayl to no man, 


Never lye soe cowardice ; 
For it is told in my father's halle 
You dye for love of mee." 


But deerlye he lovde this may. 


"Fayre ladye, it is for your love 


Till on a daye it so beffell 


That all this dill I drye: 
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, 


Great diU to him was dight; 
The mayden's love removde his mind, 
To care-bed went the knighte. 


J 7 

Then were I brought from bale to blisse, 
No lenger wold I lye." 


One while he spred his armes him fro, 


" Syr knighte, my father is a kinge. 


One while he spred them nye : 


I am his onlye heire ; 


"And aye ! but I winne that ladye's love, 


Alas ! and well you knowe, syr knighte. 


For dole now I mun dye." 


I never can be youre fere." 


And whan our parish-masse was done, 


" ladye, thou art a kinge's daughter. 


Our kinge was bowne to dyne : 


And I am not thy peere ; 


He sayes, " Where is Syr Oauline, 


But let me doe some deedes of armes. 


That is wont to serve the wyne?" 


To be your bacheleere." 


Then aunswerde'him a courteous knighte, 


" Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe. 


And fast his handes gan wringe : 


My bacheleere to bee 


"Syr Oauline is sicke, and like to dye, 


(But ever and aye my heart wold rue, 


Without a good leechinge." 


Giff harm should happe to thee,) 



200 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a tliorne, 

Upon the mores brodinge ; 
And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all 
nighte, 

Untill the fayre morninge ? 

"For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of 
mighte. 

Will examine you beforne ; 
And never man bare life awaye, 

But he did him scath and scorne. 

" That knighte he is a foul paynim, 

And large of limb and bone ; 
And but if heaven may be thy speede, 

Thy life it is but gone." 

"Kowe on the Eldridge hilles lie walke, 

For thy sake, fair ladie ; 
And lie either bring you a ready token, 

Or He never more you see." 

The lady is gone to her own chaumbere, 

Her maydens following bright ; 
Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone, 
And to the Eldridge hills is gone, 

For to wake there all night. 

Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, 

He walked up and downe ; 
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe 

Over the bents soe browne ; 
Quoth hee, " If cryance come tUl my heart, 

I am farre from any good towne." 

And soone he spyde on the mores so broad 

A furyous wight and fell ; 
A ladye bright his brydle led, 

Clad in a fayre kyrtell : 

And soe fast he called on Syr Oauline, 

" man, I rede thee flye. 
For but if cryance come till thy heart, 

I weene but thou mun dye." 

He sayth, " No cryance comes tUl my heart, 

Kor, in faith, I wyll not flee ; 
For, cause thou minged not Christ before, 

The less me dreadeth thee." 



The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed ; 

Syr Cauline bold abode : 
Then either shooke his trustye speare. 
And the timber these two children bare 

Soe soone in sunder slode. 

Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, 

And layden on full faste, 
Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, 

They all were well-nighe brast. 

The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, 
And stiflfe in stower did stande ; 

But Syr Cauline with an aukeward stroke 
He smote off his right-hand ; 

That soone he, with paine, and lacke of bloud. 
Fell downe on that lay-land. 

Then up Syr Cauline lift his brande 

All over his head so hye : 
"And here I sweare by the holy roode, 

Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye." 

Then up and came that ladye brighte, 

Faste wringing of her hande : 
"For the mayden's love, that most you love, 

Withold that deadlye brande : 

"For the mayden's love, that most you love, 

Now smyte no more I praye ; 
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord. 

He shall thy bests obaye." 

"Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte, 

And here on this lay-land, 
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye, 

And therto plight thy hand : 

"And that thou never on Eldridge hill come 

To sporte, gamon, or playe ; 
And that thou here give up thy armes 

Until thy dying daye." 

The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes, 
With many a sorrowfulle sighe ; 

And sware to obey Syr Cauline's best. 
Till the tyme that he shold dye. 

And he then up, and the Eldridge knighte 

Sett him in his saddle anone ; 
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye. 

To theyr castle are they gone. 



i 



SIR OAULINE. 201 


Then lie tooke up the bloudy hand, 


From that daye forthe, that ladye fayre 


That was so large of bone, 


Lovde Syr Oauline the knighte ; 


And on it he founde five ringes of gold. 


From that daye forthe, he only joyde 


Of knightes that had he slone. 


Whan shee was in his sight. 


Then he tooke np the Eldridge sworde, 
As hard as any flint ; 


Yea, and oftentimes they mette 


Within a fayre arboure, 


And he tooke off those ringes five, 


Where they, in love and sweet da,11a,unce, 


As bright as fyre and brent. 


Past manye a pleasaunt houre. 


Home then pricked Syr Oaiiline, 




As light as leafe on tree ; 




I-wys he neither stint ne blanne. 


THE SECOND PAET. 


Till he his ladye see. 


EvEETE white will have its blacke, 


, 


And everye sweete its sowre : 


Then downe he knelt upon his knee, 
Before that lady gay : 


This founde the ladye Christabelle 
In an untimely howre. 


" ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge liilla; 




These tokens I bring away." 






For so it befelle, as Syr Oauline 


" Now welcome, welcome, Syr Oauline, 


Was with that ladye faire. 


Thrice welcome unto mee, 


The kinge, her father, walked forthe 


For now I perceive thou art a true knighte, 


To take the evenyng aire : 


Of valour bolde and free." 






And into the arboure as he went 


" ladye, I am thy own true knighte, 


To rest his wearye feet. 


Thy bests for to obaye ; 


He found his daughter and Syr Oauline 


And mought I hope to wirme thy love ! " — 


There sette in daliaunce sweet. 


No more his tonge colde say. 






The kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys. 


The ladye blushed scarlette redde. 


And an angrye man was hee : 


And fette a gentill sighe : 


"No we, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe, 


"Alas! syr knight, how may this bee. 


And rewe shall thy ladie." 


For my degree 's soe highe ? 




" But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth. 

To be my bachelere. 
He promise, if thee I may not wedde, 

I will have none other fere." 


Then forthe Syr Oauline he was ledde. 
And throwne in dungeon deepe ; 

And the ladye into a towre so hye. 
There left to wayle and weepe. 


Then shee held forthe her liley- white hand 


The queene she was Syr Oauline's friend, 


Towards that knighte so free ; 


And to the kinge sayd shee : 


He gave to it one gentill kisse. 


" I pray you save Syr Oauline's life. 


His heart was brought from bale to blisse. 


And let him banisht bee." 


The teares sterte from his ee. 






"Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent 


"But keep my counsayl, Syr Cauline, 


Across the salt-sea fome ; 


Ne let no man it knowe ; 


But here I will make thee a band. 


For, and ever my father sholde it ken. 


If ever he come within this land, 


I wot he wolde us sloe." 


A foule deathe is his doome." 



202 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



All woe-begone was that gentil knight 

To parte from his ladye ; 
And many a time he sighed sore. 

And cast a wistfulle eye : 
" Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte, 

Farre lever had I dye." 

Faire Christabelle, that ladye bright. 

Was had forthe of the towre ; 
But ever shee droopeth in her minde. 
As nipt by an ungentle winde 

Doth some faire liley flowre. 

And ever shee doth lament and weepe, 

To tint her lover soe : 
" Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee, 

But I wiU stm be true." 

Manye a kinge, and manye a duke. 

And lorde of high degree, 
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love ; 

But never shee wolde them nee. 

When manye a daye was past and gone, 

Ne comforte shee colde finde, 
The kynge proclaimed a tourneament. 

To cheere his daughter's mind. 

And there came lords, and there came knights 

Fro manye a farre countrye, 
To break a spere for theyr ladye's love, 

Before that faire ladye. 

And many a ladye there was sette, 

In purple and in palle ; 
But faire Christabelle, soe woe-begone, 

Was the fayrest of them all. 

Then manye a knighte was mickle of might, 

Before his ladye gaye ; 
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, 

He wan the prize eche daye. 

His acton it was aH of blacke, 

His hewberke and his sheelde ; 
Ne noe man wist whence he did come, 
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone, 

When they came out the feelde. 



And now three days were prestlye past 

In feates of chivalrye, 
When lo ! upon the fourth morninge, 

A sorrowfuUe sight they see : 
# 
A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke. 

All foule of limbe and lere, 
Two goggling eyen, like fire farden, 

A moiithe from eare to eare. 

Before him came a dwarffe faU lowe. 

That waited on his knee ; 
And at his backe five heads he bare. 

All wan and pale of blee. 

"Sir," quoth the dwarflfe, and louted lowe, 

"Behold that bend Soldain ! 
Behold these heads I beare with me ! 

They are kings which he hath slain. 

" The Eldridge knight is his own cousine. 

Whom a knight of thine hath shent ; 
And bee is come to avenge his wrong : 
And to thee, all thy knightes among. 
Defiance here hath sent. 

" But yette he will appease his wrath. 

Thy daughter's love to winne ; 
And, but thou yeelde him that fayre maid, 

Thy halls and towers must brenne. 

" Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee, 

Or else thy daughter dere ; 
Or else within these lists soe broad. 

Thou must finde him a peere." 

The kinge he turned him round aboute. 

And in his heart was woe : 
"Is there never a knighte of my round table 

This matter will undergoe ? 

"Is there never a knighte amongst yee all 
Will fight for my daughter and mee ? 

Whoever will fight yon grimme Soldan, 
Eight fair his meede shall bee. 

" For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, 

And of my crowne be heyre ; 
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle 

To be his wedded fere," 



SIR CAULINE. 



203 



But every knighte of his round table 

Did stand both still and pale ; 
For, whenever they lookt on the grim Soldan, 

It made their hearts to quaH. 

All wpe-begone was that fayre ladye, 
When she sawe no helpe was nye : 

She cast her thought on her owne true-love, 
And the teares gusht from her eye. 

Up then sterte the stranger knighte, 

Sayd, " Ladye, be not affrayd ; 
lie fight for thee with this grimme Soldan, 

Thoughe he be unmacMye made. 

"And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge 
sworde, 

That lyeth within thy bowre, 
I truste in Ohriste for to slay this fiende, 

Thoughe he be stiff in stowre." 

" Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge* sworde," 
The kinge he cryde, " with speede : 

Nowe, heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ; 
My daughter is thy meede." 

The gyaunt he stepped into the lists. 

And sayd, " Awaye, awaye ! 
I sweare, as I am the hend Soldan, 

Thou lettest me here all daye." 

Then forthe the stranger knight he came, 

In his blacke armoure dight ; 
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, 

" That this were my true knighte ! " 

And nowe the gyaunt and knight be mett 

"Within the lists soe broad ; 
And now, with swordes soe sharpe of Steele, 

They gan to lay on load. 

The Soldan strucke the knighte a stroke 

That made him reele asyde ; 
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 

And thrice she deeply sighde. 

The Soldan strucke a second stroke, 
And made the blonde to flowe ; 

All pale and wan was that ladye fayre, 
And thrice she wept for woe. 



The Soldan strucke a third fell stroke, 
Which brought the knighte on his knee ; 

Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, 
And she shriekt loud shriekings three. 



The knighte he leapt upon his feete, 
All recklesse of the pain ; 

Quoth hee, "But heaven be now my 
Or else I shall be slaine." 



He grasped his sworde with mayne andmighte, 

And spying a secrette part, 
He drave it into the Soldans syde, 

And pierced him to the heart. 

Then aU the people gave a shoute, 
Whan they sawe the Soldan faUe ; 

The ladye wept, and thanked Christ 
That had reskewed her from thrall. 

And nowe the kinge, with aU his barons, 

Eose uppe from offe his seate. 
And downe he stepped into the listes 

That curteous knighte to greete. 

But he, for payne and lacke of blonde, 

Was fallen into a swounde. 
And there, aU walteringe in his gore, 

Lay lifelesse on the grounde. 

"Come downe, come downe, my daughter 
deare, 

Thou art a leeche of skille ; 
Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes 

Than this good knighte sholde spiUe." 

Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye. 

To helpe him if she maye ; 
But when she did his beavere raise, 
" It is my life, my lord ! " she sayes, 

And shriekte and swound awaye. 

Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes, 

When he heard his ladye crye : 
" O ladye, I am thine owne true love ; 

For thee I wisht to dye." 

Then giving her one partinge looke. 

He closed his eyes in death, 
Ere ChristabeUe, that ladye milde, 

Begane to drawe her breathe. 



204 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



But when she found her comelye knighte 

Indeed was dead and gone, 
She layde her pale, cold cheeke to his, 

And thus she made her moane : 

" staye, my deare and onlye lord, 

For mee, thy faithfulle fere ; 
'T is meet that I shold foUowe thee, 

Who hast bought my love so deare." 

Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune. 

And with a deep-fette sighe 
That burst her gentle heart in twayne, 

Fayre Ohristabelle did dye. 

Anonymous. 



THE NUT-BKOWN MAID. 

Be it right, or wrong, these men among 

On women do complain ; 
Affirming this, how that it is 

A labour spent in vain 
To love them wele; for never a dele 

They love a man again : 
For let a man do what he can, 

Their favour to attain, 
Yet, if a new do them pursue. 

Their first true lover then 
Laboureth for nought, for from her thought 

He is a banished man. 

I say not nay, but that aU day 

It is both writ and said 
That woman's faith is, as who saith, 

All utterly decayed ; 
But, nevertheless, right good witness 

In this case might be laid. 
That they love true, and contintie, 

Eecord the Nut-brown Maid ; 
"Which, when her love came, her to prove. 

To her to make his moan, 
"Would not depart ; for in her heart 

She loved but him alone. 

Then between us let us discuss 

What was aU the manere 
Between them too : we will also 

Tell all the pain, and fere. 



That she was in. Now I begin, 

So that ye me answere ; 
"Wherefore, all ye, that present be 

I pray you, give an ear. 
I am the knight ; I come by night, 

As secret as I can ; 
Saying, "Alas! thus standeth the case, 

I am a banished man." 



SHE. 

And I your will for to fulfil 

In this wiU not refuse ; 
Trusting to shew, in wordes few, 

That men have an ill use 
(To their own shame) women to blame, 

And causeless them accuse : 
Therefore to you I answer now, 

All women to excuse — 
Mine own heart dear, with you what chere? 

I pray you, teU anone ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I lo/e but you alone. 



It standeth so ; a dede is do 

Whereof great harm shall grow : 
My destiny is for to die 

A shameful death, I trowe ; 
Or else to flee ; the one must be. 

None other way I know. 
But to withdraw as an outlaw, 

And take me to my bow. 
Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true ! 

None other rede I can ; 
For I must to the green wood go, 

Alone, a banished man. 



Lord, what is this worldys bliss, 
That changeth as the moon ! 

My summer's day in lusty May 
Is darked before the noon. 

1 hear you say Farewell : Nay, nay, 

We depart not so soon. 
Why say ye so ? "Wheder will ye go ? 

Alas ! what have ye done ? 
All my welfare to sorrow and care 

Should change, if ye were gone ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love but you alone. ** 



THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 



206 



I can believe, it shall you grieve, 

And somewhat you distrain ; 
But, afterward, your paines hard 

Within a day or twain 
Shall soon aslake ; and ye shall take 

Comfort to you again. 
Why should ye ought? for to make thought, 

Your labour were in vain. 
And thus I do ; and pray you too, 

As heartily as I can ; 
For I must to the green wood go, 

Alone, a banished man. 



Now, sith that ye have shewed to mo 

The secret of your mind, 
I shall be plain to you again. 

Like as ye shall me find. 
Sith it is so, that ye will go, 

I wolle not leave behind ; 
Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid 

Was to her love unkind : 
Make you ready, for so am I, 

Although it were anone ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love but you alone. 



Yet I you rede to take good heed 

What men will think and say : 
Of young and old it shall be told, 

That ye be gone away, 
Your wanton will for to fulfil. 

In green wood you to play ; 
And that ye might from your delight 

No longer make delay. 
Kather than ye should thus for me 

Be called an ill woman, 
Yet would I to the green wood go. 



SHE. 

Though it be sung of old and young, 

That I should be to blame. 
Theirs be the charge, that speak so large 

In hurting of my name ; 
For I wiU prove, that, faithful love 

It is devoid of shame ; 
In your distress, and heaviness. 

To part with you, the same ; 



And sure all tho, that do not so. 
True lovers are they none ; 

For, in my mind, of all mankind 
I love but you alone. 



I counsel you, remember how, 

It is no maiden's law. 
Nothing to doubt, but to renne out 

To wood with an outlaw : 
For ye must there in your hand bear 

A bow, ready to draw ; 
And, as a thief, thus must you live. 

Ever in dread and awe ; 
Whereby to you great harm might grow: 

Yet had I lever than, 
That I had to the green wood go, 

Alone, a banished man. 



I think not nay, but as ye say. 

It is no maiden's lore ; 
But love may make me for your sake, 

As I have said before, 
To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot 

To get us meat in store ; 
For so that I your company 

May have, I ask no more : 
From which to part, it maketh my heart 

As cold as any stone ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

For an outlaw this is the law. 

That men him take and bind ; 
Without pity, hanged to be, 
• And waver with the wind. 
If I had nede, (as God forbede !) 

What rescue could ye find ? 
Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow 

For fear would draw behind ; 
And no mervayle : for little avail 

Were in your counsel then ; 
Wherefore I will to the green wood go. 

Alone, a banished man. 



Right well know ye, that women be 

But feeble for to fight ; 
No womanhede it is indeed 

To be bold as a knight ; 



206 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Yet in such fear if that ye were 

With enemies day or night, 
I would withstand, with how in hand, 

To greve them as I might, 
And you to save ; as women have, 

From death men many a one ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love hut you alone. 



Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 

That ye could not sustain 
The thorny ways, the deep valleys. 

The snow, the frost, the rain. 
The cold, the heat : for, dry or wet, 

"We must lodge on the plain ; 
And, us ahove, none other roof 

But a brake bush, or twain ; 
"Which soon should grieve you, I believe ; 

And ye would gladly then 
That I had to the green wood go, 

Alone, a banished man. 



Sith I have here been partyndre 

With you of joy and bliss, 
I must also part of your woe 

Endure, as reason is ; 
Yet am I sure of one pleasiire ; 

And, shortly, it is this : 
That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, 

I could not fare amiss. 
Without more speech, I you beseech 

That we were soon agone ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

If ye go thyder, ye must consider, 

When ye have lust to dine. 
There shall no meat be for you gete, 

Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. 
No shet^s clean, to lie between. 

Made of thread and twine ; 
None other house, but leaves and boughs, 

To cover your head and mine ; 
O mine heart sweet, this evil diete 

Should make you pale and wan ; 
Wherefore I will to the green wood go. 

Alone, a banished man. 



SHE. 

Among the wild dere, such an arch§re. 

As men say that ye be, 
Ne may not fail of good vitayle. 

Where is so great plenty : 
And water clear of the ryv^re 

Shall be full sweet to me ; 
With which in hele I shall right wele 

Endure, as ye shall see ; 
And, or we go, a bed or two 

I can provide anone ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love but you alone. 



Lo ! yet, before, ye must do more. 

If ye will go with me: 
As cut your hair up by your ear. 

Your kirtle by the knee ; 
With bow in hand, for to withstand 

Your enemies, if need be ; 
And this same night before day-light. 

To wood-ward will I flee. 
If that ye will all this fulfil. 

Do it shortly as ye can ; 
Else will I to the green wood go. 

Alone, a banished man. 



I shall as now do more for you 

Than 'longeth to womanhede ; 
To shorte my hair, a bow to bear. 

To shoot in time of need. 
my sweet mother, before all other 

For you I have most drede ; 
But now, adieu ! I must ensue. 

Where fortune doth me lead. 
All this make ye : Now let us flee ; 

The day cometh fast upon ; 
For, in my mind, of all mankind 

I love but you alone. 



Nay, nay, not so ; ye shall not go 

And I shall tell ye why, 

Your appetite is to be light 

Of love, I wele aspy : 
For, like as ye have said to me. 

In like wise hardely 
Ye would answere whosoever it were, 

In way of company. 



THE NUT-BKOWN MAID. 207 


It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold ; 


Another fayrere, than ever ye were, 


And so is a woman ; 


I dare it wele avow ; 


Wherefore I to the wood will go 


And of you both each should be wroth 


Alone, a banished man. 


With other, as I trow : 




It were mine ease, to live in peace ; 


SHE. 


So will I, if I can; 


If ye take heed, it is no need 


Wherefore I to the wood will go, 


Such words to say by me ; 


Alone, a banished man. 


For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, . 




Or I you loved, parde ; 


GTTTi" 


And though that I of ancestry 


ai±i!d. 


A baron's daughter be. 


Though in the wood I understood 


Yet have you proved how I you loved 


Ye had a paramour. 


A squire of low degree ; 


All this may nought remove my thought, 


And ever shall, whatso befall ; 


But that I will be your : 


To die therefore anone ; 


And she shall finde me soft and kind, 


For, in my mind, of all mankind 


And courteys every hour ; 


I love but you alone. 


Glad to fulfil all that she wiU 




Command me to my power : 


HE. 


For had ye, lo ! an hundred mo, 


A baron's child to be beguiled ! * 


Of them I would be one ; 


It were a cursed dede ; 


For, in my mind, of all mankind 


To be felawe with an outUwe ! 


I love but you alone. 


Almighty God forbede ! 




Yet better were, the poor squyere 


HE. 


. Alone to forest yede. 


Mine own dear love, I see the proof 


Than ye should say another day, 


That ye be kind and true ; 


That, by my cursed dede, 


Of maid, and wife, in aU my life, 


Ye were betrayed ; wherefore, good maid, 


The best that ever I knew. 


The best rede that I can, 


Be merry and glad, be no more sad. 


Is, that I to the green wood go, 


The case is changed new. 


Alone, a banished man. 


For it were ruth, that, for your truth, 




Ye should have cause to rue. 


SHE. 

Whatever befall, I never shall 
Of this thing you upbraid ; * 


Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said 

To you, when I began ; 
I will not to the green wood go, 


But if ye go, and leave me so. 


I am no banished man. 


Then have ye me betrayed. 




Eemember you wele, how that ye dele ; 


gu Xf 


For, if ye, as ye said. 


jSJtLIS. 


Be so unkind, to leave behind. 


These tidings be more glad to me, 


Your love, the ISTut-brown Maid, 


Than to be made a queen, 


Trust me truly, that I shall die 


If I were sure they should endure : 


Soon after ye be gone ; 


But it is often seen. 


For, in my mind, of all mankind 


When men will break promise, they speak 


I love but you alone. 


The wordes on the splene. 




Ye shape some wile me to beguile, 


HE. 


And steal from me, I ween ; 


If that ye went, ye should repent ; 


Then, were the case worse than it was, 


For in the forest now 


And I more wo-begone ; 


I have purvayed me of a maid. 


For, in my mind, of all mankind 


Whom I love more than you ; 


I love but you alone. 



208 POEMS OF LOVE. 


HE. 


This Moor he had but ae daughter, 


Ye shall not nede farther to drede ; 


Her name was called Susie Pye ; 


I will not disparage 


And every day as she took the air. 


You, ((aod defend !) sith ye descend 


Near Beichan's prison she passed by. 


Of so great a lineage. 




Now understand ; to "Westmoreland, 


so it feU, upon a day 


Which is mine heritage, 


She heard young Beichan sadly sing : 


I will you bring ; and with a ring, 


"My hounds they all go masterless ; 


By way of marriage 


My hawks they flee from tree to tree ; 


I will you take, and lady make, 


My younger brother will heir my land ; 


As shortly as I can : 


Fair England again I '11 never see ! " 


Thus have you won an erly's son. 




And not a banished man. 


All night long no rest she got. 




Young Beichan's song for thinking on ; 


AUTHOE. 


She's stown the keys from her father's head. 


Here may ye see, that women be 


And to the prison strong is gone. 


In love, meek, kind, and stable ; 




Let never man reprove them then, 


And she has opened the prison doors, 


Or call them variable ; 


I wot she opened two or three, 


But, rather, pray God that we may 


Ere she could come young Beichan at, 


To them be comfortable ; 


He was locked up so curiouslie. 


"Wliich sometime proveth such, as he loveth. 




If they be charitable. 


But when she came young Beichan before. 


For sith men would that women should 


Sore wondered he that may to see ; 


Be meek to them each one ; 


He took her for some fair captive ; — 


Much more ought they to God obey, 


"Fair Lady, I pray, of what countrie?" 


And serve but him alone. 




AiroNYMOtrs. 


" have ye any lands," she said, 




" Or castles in your own countrie. 
That ye could give to a lady fair. 






From prison strong to set you free ? " 


YOUNG BEIOHAN AND SUSIE PYE. 






" Near London town I have a hall. 


In London was young Beichan born. 
He longed strange countries for to see ; 

But he was taen by a savage Moor, 
Who handled him right cruellie ; 


With other castles two or three ; 
I' U give them aU to the lady fair 
That out of prison will set me free." 


For he viewed the fashions of that land : 


" Give me the truth of your right hand. 


Their way of worship viewed he ; 


The truth of it give unto me. 


But to Mahound, or Termagant, 


That for seven years ye '11 no lady wed, 


Would Beichan never bend a knee. 


Unless it be along with me." 


So in every shoulder they 've putten a bore ; 


" I '11 give thee the truth of my right hand, 


In every bore they 've putten a tree ; 


The truth of it I '11 freely gie, 


And they have made him trail the wine 


That for seven years I '11 stay unwed. 


And spices on his fair bodie. 


For the kindness thou dost show to me." 


They 've casten him in a dungeon deep, 


And she has bribed the proud warder 


Where he could neither hear nor see ; 


Wi' mickle gold and white monie ; 


For seven years they kept him there, , 


She 's gotten the keys of the prison strong, 


Till he for hunger's like to die. 


And she has set young Beichan free. 



YOUNG BEICHAN AND SUSIE PTE. 



209 



She 's gi'en Mm to eat the good spice-cake, 
She 's gi'en him to drink the blood-red wine ; 

She 's bidden him sometimes think on her 
That sae kindly freed him out of pine. 

She 's broken a ring from her finger, 
And to Beichan half of it gave she : 

" Keep it, to mind you of that love 
The lady borr that set you free. 

" And set your foot on good ship-board, 
And haste ye back to your own countrie ; 

And before that seven years have an end, 
Come back again, love, and marry me." 

But long ere seven years had an end. 
She longed full sore her love to see ; 

For ever a voice within her breast 

Said, " Beichan has broke his vow to thee." 

So she 's set her foot on good ship-board, 
And turned her back on her own countrie. 

She sailed east, she sailed west. 
Till to fair England's shore she came ; 

Where a bonny shepherd she espied, 
Feeding his sheep upon the plain. 

" What news, what news, thou bonny shep- 
herd? 

What news has thou to tell to me ? " 
"Such news I hear, ladie," he says, 

" The like was never in this countrie. 

" There is a wedding in yonder hall. 
Has lasted these thirty days and three ; 

Young Beichan will not bed with his bride, 
For love of one that 's yond the sea." 

She 's put her hand in her pocket, 
Gi'en him the gold and white monie ; 

" Here, take ye that, my bonny boy. 
For the good news thou tell'st to me." 

When she came to young Beichan's gate. 

She tirled softly at the pin ; 
So ready was the proud porter 

To open and let this lady in. 

" Is this young Beichan's hall," she said, 
" Or is that noble lord within ? " 

" Yea, he 's in the hall among them all. 
And this is the day o' his weddin." 
14 



" And has he wed anither love ? 

And has he clean forgotten me ? " 
And, sighin', said that gay ladie, 

"I wish I were in my own countrie." 

And she has taen her gay gold ring, 
That with her love she brake so free ; 

Says, " Gie him that, ye proud porter, 
And bid the bridegroom speak to me." 

When the porter came his lord before. 
He kneeled down low on his knee — 

" What aileth thee, my proud porter, 
Thou art so full of courtesie ? " 

"I've been porter at your gates. 
It 's thirty long years now and three ; 

But there stands a lady at them now. 
The like o' her did I never see ; 

" For on every finger she has a ring. 
And on her mid finger she has three ; 

And as meickle gold aboon her brow 
As would buy an earldom to me." 

Its out then spak the bride's mother, 
Aye and an angry woman was shee ; 

" Ye might have excepted our bonny bride, 
And twa or three of our companie." 

" O hold your tongue, thou bride's mother ; 

Of all your folly let me be ; 
She 's ten times fairer nor the bride, 

And an that 's in your companie. 

" She begs one sheave of your white bread, 
But and a cup of your red wine ; 

And to remember the lady's love, 
That last relieved you out of pine." 

" weU-a-day ! " said Beichan then, 
" That I so soon have married thee ! 

For it can be none but Susie Pye, 
That sailed the sea for love of me." 

And quickly hied he down the stair ; 

Of fifteen steps he made but three ; 
He 's ta'en his bonny love in his arms. 

And kist, and kist her tenderlie. 



210 



POEMS OF LOVE 



" hae ye ta'en anitlier bride ? 

And hae ye quite forgotten me ? 
And hae ye quite forgotten her, 

That gave you life and libertie ? " 

She looked o'er her left shoulder, 
To hide the tears stood in her e'e : 

" Now fare thee well, young Beichan," she 
says, 
"I'll try to think no more on thee." 

" never, never, Susie Pye, 

For surely this can never be ; 
Nor ever shall I wed but her 

That's done and dree'd so much for me." 

Then out and spak the forenoon bride — 
" My lord, your love it changeth soon ; 

This morning I was made your bride. 
And another chose ere it be noom" 

" hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride ; 

Ye 're ne'er a whit the worse for me ; 
And whan ye return to your own countrie, 

A double dower I '11 send with thee." 

He 's taen Susie Pye by the white hand, 
And gently led her up and down ; 

And ay as he kist her red rosy lips, 
"Ye 're welcome, jewel, to your own." 

He 's taen her by the milk-white hand. 
And led her to yon fountain stane ; 

He 's changed her name from Susie Pye, 

And he 's called her his bonny love. Lady 

Jane. 

Anontmoub. 

— • — 

LORD LOYEL. 

LoED Lovel he stood at his castle gate, 

Combing his milk-white steed ; 
"When up came Lady Nancy Belle, 

To wish her lover good speed, speed, 

To wish her lover good speed. 

""Where are you going. Lord Lovel?" she 
said, 

" Oh ! where are you going ? " said she ; 
" I 'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle, 

Strange countries for to see, to see, 

Strange countries for to see." 



" When will you be back, Lord Lovel ? " said 
she; 

" O ! when will you come back? " said she; 
" In a year or two — or three, at the most, 

I '11 return to my fair Nancy-cy, 

I '11 return to my fair Nancy." 

But he had not been gone a year and a day, 
Strange countries for to see, 

When languishing thoughts came into his 
head. 
Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, see, 
Lady Nancy BeUe he would go see. 

So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white 
steed. 
Till he came to London town, 

And there he heard St. Pancras' bells, 

And the people all mourning, round, round, 
And the people all mourning round. 

" O, what is the matter," Lord Lovel he said, 
" Oh ! what is the matter ? " said he ; 

"A lord's lady is dead," a woman replied, 
" And some call her Lady Nancy-cy, 
And some call her Lady Nancy." 

So he ordered the grave to be opened wide, 
And the shroud he turned down, 

And there he kissed her clay-cold lips. 
Till the tears came trickling down, down, 
Till the tears came trickling down. 

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day. 
Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow ; 

Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief. 
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow. 
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras' church, 
Lord Lovel was laid in the choir ; 

And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, 
And out of her lover's a brier, brier. 
And out of her lover's a brier. 

They grew, and they grew, to the church 
steeple top. 
And then they could grow no higher : 
So there they entwined in a true-lover's knot, 
For all lovers true to admire-mire, 
For all lovers true to admire. 

AroKYMOirs. 



ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-D ALE. 



211 



KOBIISr HOOD AND ALLEIsT-A-DALE. 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
All you that love mirtli for to hear, 

And I will tell you of a hold outlaw, 
That lived in Nottinghamshire. 

As Eobin Hood in the forest stood, 
All under the greenwood tree. 

There he was aware of a brave young man. 
As fine as fine might be. 

The youngster was clad in scarlet red. 

In scarlet fine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain, 

And chaunted a roundelay. 

As Eobin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay, 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away ; 
And at every step he fetched a sigh, 

"Alas ! and a well-a-day ! " 

Then stepped forth brave Little John, 

And Midge, the miller's son ; 
Which made the young man bend his bow, 

"When as he see them come. 

" Stand off ! stand off! " the young man said, 
" What is your will with me ? " 

"You must come before our master straight. 
Under yon greenwood tree." 

And when he came bold Eobin before, 
Eobin asked him courteously, 

" 0, hast thou any money to spare, 
Eor my merry men and me ? " 

"I have no money," the young man said, 
" But five shillings and a ring ; 

And that I have kept this seven long years. 
To have at my wedding. 



" Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she was from me ta'en, 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight, 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 

" What is thy name ? " then said Eobin Hood, 
" Come teU me, without any fail." 

"By the faith of my body," then said the 
young man, 
'My name it is Allen-a-Dale." 

"What wilt thou give me," said Eobin Hood, 

" In ready gold or fee, 
To help thee to thy true love again. 

And dehver her unto thee ? " 

"I have no money," then quoth the young 
man, 

No ready gold nor fee. 
But I will swear upon a book 

Thy true servant for to be." 

" How many miles is it to thy true love ? 

Come tell me without guile." 
"By the faith of my body," then said the 
young man, 

"It is but five little mile." 

Then Eobin he hasted over the plain, 

He did neither stint nor lin. 
Until he came unto the church 

Where AUen should keep his weddin'. 

"What hast thou here? " the bishop then said, 
" I prithee now tell unto me." 

" I am a bold harper," quoth Eobin Hood, 
"And the best in the north country." 

" welcome, welcome," the bishop he said, 
"That music best pleaseth me." 

"You shall have no music," quoth Eobin 
Hood, 
" Till the bride and bridegroom I see." 

With that came in a wealthy knight, 
Which was both grave and old ; 

And after him a finikin lass, 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 



212 POEMS OF LOVE. 


" This is not a fit match," quotli Kobin Hood, 




" That you do seem to make here ; 


TRUTH'S INTEGETTY. 


For since we are come into the church. 




The bride shall chuse her own dear." 


FmST PAET. 


Then Eobin Hood put his horn to his mouth, 


Over the mountains 


And blew blasts two or three ; 


And under the waves, . 


When four-and-twenty yeomen bold 


Over the fountains 


Came leaping over the lea. 


And under the graves. 




Under floods which are deepest. 


And when they came into the church-yard. 


Which do Neptune obey. 


Marching all in a row, 


Over rocks which are steepest, 


The first man was Allen-a-Dale, 


Love will find out the way. 


To give bold Eobin his bow. 






Where there is no place 


" This is thy true love," Kobin he said, 


For the glow-worm to lie. 


"Young Allen, as I hear say; 


Where there is no place 


And you shall be married this same tune, 


For receipt of a fly, 


Before we depart away." 


Where the gnat dares not venture. 




Lest herself fast she lay. 


" That shall not be," the bishop he cried. 


But if Love come he will enter, 
And find out the way. 


" For thy word shall not stand ; 


They shall be three times asked in the church, 




As the law is of our land." 


You may esteem him 




A child of his force. 


Eobin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat. 


Or you may deem him 


And put it upon Little John ; 


A coward, which is worse ; 


" By the faith of my body," then Eobin said. 


But if he whom Love doth honor 


" This cloth doth make thee a man." 


Be concealed from the day. 




Set a thousand guards upon him— 




Love will find out the way. 


When Little John went into the quire, 




The people began to laugh ; 




He asked them seven times into church, 


Some think to lose him. 


Lest three times should not be enough. 


Which is too unkind ; 




And some do suppose him, 




Poor heart, to be bhnd ; 


"Who gi^es me this maid? " said Little John, 


But if he were hidden. 


Quoth Kobin Hood, " That do I ; 


Do the best you may. 


And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 


Blind Love, if you so call him, 


Full dearly he shall her buy." 


Will find out the way. 


And then having ended this merry wedding. 


Well may the eagle 


The bride looked like a queen ; 


Stoop down to the fist. 


And so they returned to the merry green- 


Or you may inveigle 


wood. 


The Phoenix of the east; 


Amongst the leaves so green. 


With fear the tiger 's moved 


ANONTMOrrs. 


To give over their prey ; 


« 


But never stop a lover — 




He will find out the way. 



THE FRIAR OF 


ORDERS GRAY. 213 


From Dover to Berwick, 


Winds that have no abidings, 


And nations thereabout, 


Pitying then- delay. 


Brave Gnj, Earl of "Warwick, 


Would come and bring him tidings, 


That champion so stont, 


And direct him the way. 


With his warlike behavior, 




Through the world he did stray. 


If the earth should part him, 


To win his Phillis's favor — 


He would gaUop it o'er ; 


Love will find out the way. 


K the seas should o'erthwart him. 




He would swim to the shore. 


In order next enters 


Should his love become a swaUow, 


Bevis so brave, 


Through the air to stray, 


After adventures 


Love will lend wings to follow. 


And policy brave, 


And will find out the way. 


To see whom he desired, 




His Josian so gay, 


There is no striving 


For whom his heart was fired — 


To cross his intent. 


Love will find out the way. 


There is no contriving 




His plots to prevent ; 




But if once the message greet him, 


SECOITD PAET. 


That his true love doth stay, 




K death should come and meet him, 


The Gordian knot ' 


Love wiU find out the way. 


Which true lovers knit, 


AnONTMOirS. 


Undo it you cannot, 
Nor yet break it ; 




' 


Make use of your inventions. 




Their fancies to betray, 


THE FEIAE OF ORDERS GRAY. 


To frustrate their intentions — 




Love will find out the way. 


It was a friar of orders gray 




Walked forth to teU his beads ; 


From court to the cottage, 


And he met with a lady fair 


In bower and in hall, 


Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 


From the king unto the beggar, 




Love conquers all. 


" Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, 


Though ne'er so stout and lordly, 


I pray thee tell to me, 


Strive or do what you may, 


If ever at yon holy shrine 


Yet be you ne'er so hardy, 


My true love thou didst see." 


Love will find out the way. 






" And how should I know your true love 


Love hath power over princes, 


From many another one ? " 


And greatest emperors ; 


" 0, by his cockle hat, and staff, 


In any provinces, 


And by his sandal shoon. 


Such is Love's power 




There is no resisting, 


" But chiefly by his face and mien, 


But him to obey ; 


That were so fair to view ; 


In spite of all contesting, 


His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. 


Love will find out the way. 


And eyes of lovely blue." 


If that he were hidden. 


" lady, he 's dead and gone ! 


And all men that are 


Lady, he 's dead and gone ! 


Were strictly forbidden 


And at his head a green grass turf. 


That place to declare, 


And at his heels a stone. 



214 



POEMS OF LOVE 



" Within these holy cloisters long 

He languished, and he died, 
Lamenting of a lady's love, 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

" Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall, 
And many a tear bedewed his grave 

"Within yon kirk-yard wall." 

" And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! 

And art thou dead and gone ! 
And didst thou die for love of me ? 

Break, cruel heart of stone ! " 

" weep not, lady, weep not so ; 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 

" do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won lady's love. 

" And now, alas ! for thy sad loss 
I '11 evermore weep and sigh : 

For thee I only wished to live, 
For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, . 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets plucked, the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow again. 

" Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; 

Why then should sorrow last ? 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

" O say not so, thou holy friar ; 

I pray thee, say not so ; 
For since my true-love died for me, 

'T is meet my tears should flow. 

"And will he never come again? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave : 

For ever to remain. 



" His cheek was redder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he ! 
But he is dead and laid in his grave : 

Alas, and woe is me ! " 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land. 

To one thing constant never. 

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

"Fow say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart — 

O he was ever true ! 

"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth; 

And didst thou die for me ? 
Then farewell home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will be. 

" But first upon my true-love's grave 

My weary limbs I '11 lay. 
And thrice I '11 kiss the green-grass turf 

That wraps his breathless clay." 

" Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 

Beneath this cloister wall ; 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold 
wind, 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

"O stay me not, thou holy friar, 

stay me not I pray ; 
No drizzly rain that falls on me, 

Can wash my fault away." 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gown of gray 

Thy own true-love appears. 

" Here forced by grief, and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought ; 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 



THE SPANISH 


LADY'S LOVE. 215 


"But haply, for my year of grace 


"How should 'st thou, fair lady, love me. 


Is not yet passed away ; 


Whom thou know'st thy country's foe? 


Might I still hope to win thy love, 


Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee : 


Ko longer would I stay." 


Serpents are where flowers grow." 




"All the evil I think to thee, most gracious 

knight, 
God grant unto myself the same may fully 


"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 


Once more unto my heart ; 


light. 


For since I have found thee, lovely youth. 


"We never more will part." 


"Blessed be the time and season. 


Thomas Pekot. 


That you came on Spanish ground ; 




If you may our foes be termed. 




Gentle foes we have you found : 
With our city, you have won ^ur hearts each 




THE SPANISH T,A"nY'S LOYE. 


one, 
Then to your country bear away, that is your 
own." 


Will you hear a Spanish lady, 


"Eest you still, most gallant lady; 


How she wooed^an English man? 


Best you still, and weep no more ; 


Garments gay as rich as may be 


Of fair lovers there are plenty. 


Decked with jewels had she on. 


Spain doth yield a wondrous store." 


Of a comely countenance and grace was 


"Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often 


she, 


find. 


And by birth and parentage of high degree. 


But Englishmen throughout the world are 




counted kind. 


As his prisoner there he kept her, 


" Leave me not unto a Spaniard, 


In his hands her Hfe did lye ; 


You alone enjoy my heart; 


Cupid's bands did tye her faster 


I am lovely, young, and tender, 


By the liking of an eye. 


And so love is my desert. 


In his courteous company was all her joy. 


Still to serve thee day and night my mind is 


To favour him in any thing she was not 


prest; 


coy. 


The wife of every Englishman is counted 




blest." 


At the last there came commandment 




For to set the ladies free. 


" It would be a shame, fair lady, 


With their jewels still adorned. 


For to bear a woman hence ; 


None to do them injury. 


English soldiers never carry 


"Alas! " then said this lady gay, "full woe is 


Any such without offence." 


me; 


"I will quickly change myself, if it be so. 


let me still sustain this kind captivity ! 


And like a page I'll follow thee, where'er 




thou go." 


"0 gallant captain, shew some pity 


" I have neither gold nor silver 


To a ladye in distresse ; 


To maintain thee in this case, 


Leave me not within this city, 


And to travel, 'tis great charges, ^ 


For to dye in heavinesse. 


As you know, in every place." 


Thou hast set this present day my body 


"My chains and jewels everyone shall be 


free, 


thine own, 


But my heart in prison strong remains with 


And eke ten thousand pounds in gold that 


thee." 


lies unknown." 



216 POEMS OF LOVE. 


" On the seas are many clangers ; 




Many storms do there arise, 


THE HEEMIT. 


Which will be to ladies dreadful, 




And force tears from wat'ry eyes." 


" Ttjen, gentle Hermit of the dale. 


" Well in worth I could endure extremity, 


And guide my lonely way 


For I could find in heart to lose my life for 


To where yon taper cheers the vale 


thee." 


With hospitable ray. 


"Courteous lady, be contented; 


"For here forlorn and lost I tread, 


Here comes all that breeds the strife ; 


With fainting steps and slow ; 


I in England have already 


Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 


A sweet woman to my wife : 


Se^m lengthening as I go." 


I will not falsifie my vow for gold or gain, 




Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in 


"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 


Spain." 


" To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 




For yonder faithless phantom flies 


" how happy is that woman 


To lure thee to thy doom. 


That enioys so true a friend ! 




Many days of joy God send you I 


" Here to the houseless child of want 


Of my suit I '11 make an end : 


My door is open sMll ; 


On my Imees I pardon crave for this offence. 
Which love and true affection did first com- 


And though my portion is but scant, 
I give it with good will. 


mence. 


" Then turn to-night, and freely share 




Whate'er my cell bestows ; 


" Commend me to thy loving lady; 


My rushy couch and frugal fare, 


Bear to her this chain of gold, 


My blessing and repose. 


And these bracelets for a token ; 




Grieving that I was so bold. 


"N^o flocks that range the valley free 


All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee. 


To slaughter I condemn ; 


For these are fitting for thy wife, and not for 


Taught by that Power that pities me, 


me. 


I learn to pity them; 




" But from the mountain's grassy side 


" I will spend my days in prayer, 
Love and all her laws defie ; 


A guiltless feast I bring ; 


In a nunnery will I shroud me. 
Far from other company : 


A sci'ip with herbs and fruits supplied, • 
And water from the spring. 


But ere my prayers have end, be sure of this, 


"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 


To pray for thee and for thy love I will not 


All earth-born cares are wrong : 


miss. 


Man wants but little here below, 




Nor wants that little long." 


" Thus farewell, most gentle captain. 




And farewell my heart's content ! 


Soft as the dew from heaven descends. 


Count not Spanish ladies wanton. 


His gentle accents fell ; 


Though to thee my love was bent : 


The modest stranger lowly bends, 


Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee ! " 


And follows to the cell. 


" The like fall ever to thy share, most fair 




lady." 


Far in a wilderness obscure 


Anontmotts. 


The lonely mansion lay ; 




A refuge to the neighboring poor, 




And strangers led astray. 



THE HERMIT. 217 


No stores beneath its humble tbatcb 
Eequired a master's care : 

The wicket, opening with a latch, 
Keceived the harmless pair. 


" For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said; 
But, while he spoke, a rising blush 

His lovelorn guest betrayed. 


And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The Hermit trimmed his little fire, 
And cheered his pensive guest ; 


Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o'er the morning skies,. 
As bright, as transient too. 


And spread his vegetable store, 
And gayly prest and smiled ; 

And, skilled in legendary lore. 
The hngering hours beguiled. 


The bashful look, the rising breast. 
Alternate spread alarms : 

The lovely stranger stands confest 
A maid in all her charms. 


Around, in sympathetic mirth. 
Its tricks the kitten tries ; 

The cricket chirrups on the hearth ; 
The crackling fagot flies. 


" And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn," she cried; 

"Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 


But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger's woe : 

Tor grief was heavy at his heart. 
And tears began to flow. 


" But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 


His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
With answering care opprest : 

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
" The sorrows of thy breast ? 


"My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was marked as mine. 

He had but only me. 


" From better habitations spurned, 
Eeluctant dost thou rove ? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturned, 
Or unregarded love ? 


" To win me from his tender arms, 
Unnumbered suitors came ; 

Who praised me for imputed charms. 
And felt, or feigned, a flame. 


" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things. 

More trifling stiU than they. 


" Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest profiers strove : 

Among the rest young Edwin bowed. 
But never talked of love. 


" And what is friendship but a name, 
A charm that lulls to sleep ; 

A shade that foUows wealth or fame, 
And leaves the wretch to weep ? 


" In humble, simplest habit clad, 
No wealth or power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 


"And love is still an emptier sound. 
The modern fair one's jest ; 

On earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle's nest. 


" And when beside me in the dale 

He caroUed lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 

And music to the grove. 



218 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



"The blossom opening to the day, 

The de\vs of heaven refined, 
Could nought of purity display 

To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossoms of the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! 
Their constancy was mine. 

"For still I tried each fickle art. 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touched my heart, 

I triumphed in his pain : 

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn. 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn. 

In secret, where he died. 

" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay ; 
I'U seek the solitude he sought. 

And stretch me where he lay. 

" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I." 

"Forbid it, Heaven! " the Hermit cried. 
And clasped her to his breast ; 

The wondering fair one turned to chide, - 
'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 

" Turn, Angeliua, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Kestored to love and thee. 

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 

And every care resign ; 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — ^my aU that's mine ? 

" No, never from this hour to part, 

"We'll live and love so true ; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." 

Olivee Goldsmith. 



SWEET WILLIAM'S FAEEWELL TO 
BLACK-EYED SUSAN". 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored. 
The streamers waving in the wind. 

When black-eyed Susan came aboard. 
Oh ! where shall I my true-love find ? 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 

If my sweet William sails among your crew. 

WiUiam, who high upon the yard 

Rocked with the bilicvs to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 

He sighed and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 

hands. 
And, quick as lightning, 
stands. 



on the deck he 



So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
Shuts close his pinions to his breast 

If chance his mate's shrill caU he hear. 
And drops at once into her nest. 

The noblest paptain in the British fleet 

Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 



Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 
My vows shaU ever true remain ; 

Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 
We only part to meet again. 

Change, as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall 
be 

The faithftd compass that stiU points to thee. 

Believe not what the landmen say, 
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 

They 'U tell thee, sailors, when away. 
In every port a mistress find : 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 

For thou art present whereso'er I go. 

If to fair India's coast we sail. 

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 

Thus every beauteous object that I view, 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue 



THE SEAMAN'S HAPPY RETURN. 



219 



Thougli battle call me from thy arms, 
Let not my pretty Susan mom'n ; 

Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, 
William shall to his dear return. 

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 

Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's 
eye. 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 

N"o longer must she stay aboard ; 
They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 

Adieu ! she cries ; and waved her lily hand. 

John Gat. 



THE SEAMAN'S HAPPY EETUEN". 

"When Sol did cast no light, being darkened 
over, 

And the dark time of night did the skies 
cover, 

Running a river by, there were ships sail- 
ing, 

A maid most fair I spied, crying and wailing. 

Unto this maid I stept, asking what grieved 
her. 

She answered me and wept, fates had de- 
ceived her ; 

My love is prest, quoth she, to cross the 
ocean — 

Proud waves to make the ship ever in motion. 

"We loved seven years and more, both being 
sure. 

But I am left on shore, grief to endure. 

He promised back to turn, if life was spared 
him, 

"With grief I daily mourn death hath de- 
barred him. 

Straight a brisk lad she spied, made her ad- 
mire, 

A present she received pleased her desire. 

Is my love safe, quoth she, will he come near 
me? 

The young man answer made, Virgin, pray 
hear me. 



Under one banher bright, for England's glory, 
Your love and I did fight — mark well my 

story ; 
By an unhappy shot we two were parted ; 
His death's wound then he got, though 

valiant-hearted. 

All this I witness can, for I stood by him, 
For courage, I must say, none did outvie 

him; 
He still would foremost be, striving for 

honour ; 
But Fortune is a cheat, — vengeance upon her ! 

But ere he was quite dead, or his heart 

broken, 
To me. these words he said, Pray give this 

token 
To my love, for there is than she no fairer ; 
Tell her she must be kind and love the 

bearer. 

Intombed he now doth lye in stately manner, 
'Cause he fought valiantly for love and hon- 
our. 
That right he had in you, to me he gave it ; 
Now since it is my due, pray let me have it. 

She, raging, flung away like one distracted, 
Not knowing what to say, nor what she 

acted. 
So last she cursed her fate, and showed her 

anger. 
Saying, Friend, you come too late, I '11 have 

no stranger. 

To your own house return, I am best pleased 
Here for my love to mourn, since he 's de- 



In sable weeds I '11 go, let who will jeer me ; 
Since death has served me so, none shall 
come near me. 

The chaste Penelope mourned for Ulysses, 
I have more grief than she, robbed of my 

blisses. 
I '11 ne'er love man again, therefore pray hear 

me; 
I '11 slight you with disdain if you come near 

me. 



220 



POEMS OF LOVE, 



I know he loved me well, for when we 
parted, 

None did in grief excel, — ^both were true- 
hearted. 

Those promises we made ne'er shall be 
broken ; 

Those words that then he said ne'er shall be 
spoken. 

He hearing what she said, made his love 
stronger. 

Off his disguise he laid, and staid no longer. 

When her dear love she knew, in wanton 
fashion 

Into his arms she flew, — such is love's pas- 
sion! 

He asked her how she liked his counter- 
feiting. 

Whether she was well pleased with such like 
greeting ? 

You are well versed, quoth she, in several 
speeches. 

Could you coin money so, you might get 
riches. 

O happy gale of wind that waft thee over! 
May heaven preserve that ship that brought 

my lover ! 
Come kiss me now, my sweet, true love's no 

slander ; 
Thou shalt my Hero be, I thy Leander. 

Dido of Carthage queen loved stout JEneas, 
But my true love is found more true than he 

was. 
Venus ne'er fonder was of younger Adonis, 
Than -I will be of thee, since thy love her 

own is. 

Then hand in hand they walk with mirth 

and pleasure. 
They laugh, they kiss, they talk — love knows 

no measure. 
Now both do sit and sing — but she sings 

clearest ; 
Like nightingale in Spring, Welcome my 

dearest ! 

Anokymotjs. 



THE EYE OF ST. AGNES. 



St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen 

grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadman's fingers while he 

told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a 

death, 
Past the sweet Yirgin's picture, while his 

prayer he saith. 

n. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 

knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 
The sculptured dead, on each side seem to 

freeze, 
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passed by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods 

and mails. 



Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden 

tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Eough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake 

to grieve. 

IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



221 



The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice 

rests, 
"With hair blown back, and wings put cross- 
wise on their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with 

triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away ; 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 

day. 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times 

declare. 

VI. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night. 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward -eyes for all that 
they desire. 

vn. 
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping 

train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And back retired ; not cooled by high dis- 
dain, 
But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' di*eams, the sweetest 
of the year. 

vin. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 
short ; 



The hallowed hour was near at hand: she 



Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 
morn. 



So, purposing each moment to retire, 

She lingered still. Meantime, across the 

moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and 

implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline ; 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship aU unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth 

such things have been. 



He ventures in ; let no buzzed whisper tell ; 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
WiU storm his heart. Love's feverous citadel ; 
For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 

soul. 



Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's 

flame. 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from 

this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood- 
thirsty race ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



xn. 

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish 

Hildehrand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and 

land; 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a 

whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away ! " — "Ah, Gossip dear, 
We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair 

sit, 
And tell me how" — "Good saints, not here, 

not here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be 

thy bier." 



He followed through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
And as she muttered " Well-a-^well-a-day ! " 
He found him in a little moonlight room, 
Pale, latticed, chUl, and silent as a tomb. 
" Xow tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
piously." 

ziv. 

" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will murder upon holy days ; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so. It fills me with amaze 
To see thee Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time 
to grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But Soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 
told 



His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could 

brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments 

cold. 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 

rose. 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot ; then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
" A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 

didst seem." 



" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear !" 
Quoth Porphyro ; " may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last 

prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face ; 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in g, moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fanged 

than wolves and bears." 



XVIII. 

" Ah ! why wilt thou aflBright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 

thing. 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight 

toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening. 
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth 

she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 

woe. 



THE EYE OF ST. AGNES. • 



223 



XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty nnespied, 
And vvin perhaps that night a peerless bride ; 
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on snch a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon- 
strous debt. 



" It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night; by the tamboui' 

frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patienee kneel in 

prayer 
The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady 

wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the 

dead." 



So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and 

chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in 

her brain. 

xxn. 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Kose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware ; 
With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazmg on that bed ! 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
frayed and fled. 



Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should 

swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in 

her deU. 



A casement high and triple-arched there was, 

AU garlanded with carven imageries 

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 



And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of 
queens and kings. 



Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 

breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and 

boon ; 
Eose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hau* a glory, like a saint ; 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint ; 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 

taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 
Of aU its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Fnclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm 
is fled. 



224 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims 

pray; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 

again. 

XXVJU. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he 

bless. 
And breathed himself; then from the closet 

crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — 

how fast she slept. 

XXIX. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise 
is gone. 



And still she slept an azm'e-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; 
While he from forth the closet brought a 

heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 

gourd ; 
"With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 



XXXI. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling the chiUy room with perfume light.^- 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
doth ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains; — 'twas a midnight 

charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast speU his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phanta- 
sies. 



Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous,^and, in chords that tenderest 

be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
In Provence called "La belle dame sans 

mercy;" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 
He ceased— she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptured stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 

There was a painful change, that nigh ex- 
pelled 

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; 

At which fair Madeline began to weep. 

And moan forth witless words with many a 
sigh; 

While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 



THE EYE OF ST. AGNES. 



225 



"Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 

eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dream- 

ingly. 



" Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, 

and drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings 

dear! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where 

to go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet; meantime the frost- wind 

blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 

hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown 

sleet ; 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" 1^0 dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 

pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou fbrsakest a deceived thing ; — • 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned 

wing." 

xxxvin. 

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 
dyed? 

15 



Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

xxxix. 

" Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from fairy land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed. 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drowned all in Ehenish and the sleepy mead. 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home 
for thee." 

■ XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 

found, 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each 

door; 
The arras^ rich with horseman, hawk, and 

hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 

floor. 

XLI. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
"Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side ; 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his 

hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 

groans. 



And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 



226 POEMS OF LOVE. 


That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 


I 've heard you say on many a day, and sure 


And all his warrior-guests, with shade and 


you said the truth, 


form 


Andalla rides without a peer among all 


Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, 


Granada's youth : 


Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 


Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white 


Died palsj-twitched, with meagre face de- 


horse doth go 


form; 


Beneath his stately master, with a stately 


The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 


. step and slow : — 


For aje unsought-for slept among his ashes 


Then rise— ! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden 


cold. 


cushion down; 


John Keats. 


Unseen here through the lattice, you may 

•i-T Till J 11% 




gaze with all the town ! " 


THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 






The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion 


"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden 


down. 


cushion down ; 


Kor came she to the window to gaze with all 


Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 


the town ; 


all the town ! 


But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in 


From gay guitar and violin the silver notes 


vain heY fingers strove. 


are flowing. 


And though her needle pressed the silk, no 


And the lovely lute doth speak between the 


flower Xarifa wove ; 


trumpets' lordly blowing. 


One bonny rose-bud she had traced before 


And bflnners bright from lattine light av(^. 


the noise drew nigh — 


waving every where, 


That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping 


And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bride- 


from her eye — 


groom floats proudly in the air. 


" No — no ! " she sighs — " bid me not rise, nor 


Rise up, rise up, Xarifa I lay the golden 


lay my cushion down. 


cushion down; 


To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing 


Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 


town ! " 


all the town ! 




"Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face — 


"Why rise ye not, Xarifa — nor lay your 


He bends him to the people with a calm and 


cushion down — 


princely grace ; 


Why gaze ye not, Xarifa— with all the gazing 


Through all the land of Xeres and banks of 


town? 


Guadelquiver 


Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and 


Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so 


how the people cry ; 


brave and lovely never. 


He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye 


Yon tall plume Waving o'er his brow, of pur- 


still— 0, why?" 


ple mixed with white, 


— " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him 


I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he 


shall I discover 


will wed to-night. 


The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth 


Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden 


with tears, and was my lover ? 


cushion down ; 


I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my 


Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 


cushion down. 


all the town I 


To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing 




town ! " 


"What aileth thee, Xarifa— what makes 


Anoxtmous. (Spanish.) 


thine eyes look down ? 


Translation of John Gibson Lockhaet. 


Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze 




with all the town ? 





THE DAY-DREAM. 



227 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



THE SLEEPINa PALACE. 



The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf; 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors hghtly curled, 

Faint murmnrs from the meadows come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn, 
The fountain to his place returns, 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

Eoof-haunting martins warm their eggs ; 

In these, in those the life is stayed. 
The mantles fi'om the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily. No sound is made — 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all. 
Than those old portraits of old kings 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 

Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drained ; and there 
The wrinkled steward at his task ; 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair, 
The page has caught her hand in his ; 

Her lips are severed as to speak ; 
His own are pouted to a kiss ; 

The blush is fixed upon her cheek. 

TiU all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimmed with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps ; 

Grave faces gathered in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps : 

He must have been a jolly king. 

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 



All creeping plants, a wall of green 
Close-matted, burr and brake and briar. 

And glimpsing over these, just seen. 
High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

When will the hundred summers die. 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As aU were ordered, ages since. 
Come Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince ! 

THE SLEEPINa BEAUTY. 

Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone. 
Across the purple coverlet. 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
The slumberous light is rich and warm, 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 

The silk star-broidered coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould. 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets, downward rolled. 
Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm. 

With bracelets of the diamond bright. 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 

THE AEEIVAL. 

All precious things, discovered late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



228 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Tho bodies and the bones of those 


How say you ? we have slept, my lords; 


That strove in other days to pass, 


My beard has grown into my lap." 


Are withered in the thorny close, 


The barons swore, with many words, 


Or scattered blanching in the grass. 


'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 


He gazes on the silent dead : 




" They perished in their daring deeds." 


"Pardy! " returned the king, "but still 


This proverb flashes through his head : 


My joints are something stiff or so. 


" The many fail; the one succeeds." 


My lord, and shaU we pass the bill 




I mentioned half an hour ago ? " 


He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks. 


The chancellor, sedate and vain. 


He breaks the hedge ; he enters there ; 


In courteous words returned reply ; 


The color flies into his cheeks ; 


But dallied with his golden chain, 


He trusts to light on something fair ; 


And, smiling, put the question by. 


For all his life the charm did tnik 




About his path, and hover near 


THE DEPAiiTUiiE. 


With words of promise in his walk, 


Akd on her lover's arm she leant, 


And whispered voices in his eai*. 


And round her waist she felt it fold ; 




And far across the hills they went 


More close and close his footsteps wind; 


In that new world which is the old. 


The magic music in his heart 


Across the hills, and far away 


Beats quick and quicker, till he find 


Beyond their utmost purple rim. 


The quiet chamber far apart. 


And deep into the dying day. 


His spirit flutters like a lark. 


The happy princess followed him. 


He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee : 




"Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 


"I'd sleep another hundred years. 


How dark those hidden eyes must be ! " 


love, for such another kiss! " 




" wake for ever, love," she hears. 


THE EEVIVAL. 


"0 love, 'twas such as this and this." 




And o'er them many a sliding star. 


A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 


And many a merry wind was borne. 


There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 


And, streamed through many a golden bar, 


And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 


The twilight melted into morn. 


And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 




A fuller light illumined all ; 


" eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 


A breeze through all the garden swept ; 


" happy sleep, that lightly fled! " 


A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 


" happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 


And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 


"0 love, thy kiss would wake the deadl " 




And o'er them many a flowing range 


The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 


Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; 


The butler drank, the steward scrawled, 


And, rapt through many a rosy change. 


The fire shot up, the martin flew. 


The twilight died into the dark. 


The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled; 




The maid and page renewed their strife ; 


"A hundred summers ! can it be? 


The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt; 


And whither goest thou, tell me where ! " 


And all the long-pent stream of life 


" seek my father's court with me, 


Dashed downward in a cataract. 


For there are greater wonders there." 




And o'er the hills, and far away 


And last of aU the king awoke, 


Beyond their utmost purple rim, 


And in his chair himself upreared, 


Beyond the night, across the day. 


And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke; 


Through all the world she followed him. 


"By holy rood, a royal beard ! 


Alfbed Tennyson. 



SERRANA, 



229 



MAEY OF CASTLE GARY. 

"Saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain 

thing? 
Saw ye my true-love down by yon lea ? 
Crossed she the meadow, yestreen, at the 

gloaming ? 
Sought she the burnie, where flowers the 

haw-tree ? 

" Her hair it is lint- white ; her skin it is milk- 
white ; 

Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ! 

Eed, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than 
roses; 

Where could my wee thing wander frae me? " 

" I sawna your wee thing ; I sawna your ain 
thing; 

Nor saw I your true-love down by yon lea ; 

But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloam- 
ing, 

Down by the burnie where flowers the haw- 
tree. 

" Her hair it was lint-white ; her skin it was 

milk-white ; 
Dark was the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ! 
Eed were her ripe lips, and sweeter than 

roses ; 
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me." 

"It wasna my wee thing; it wasna mine ain 
thing; 

It wasna my true-love ye met by the tree ; 

Proud is her leal heart, and modest her na- 
ture; 

She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. 

"Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle 

Gary; 
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee ; 
Fau' as your face is, were't fifty times fairer. 
Young braggar, she ne'er wad gie kisses to 

thee." 

"It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle 

Cary; 
It was then your true-love I met by the tree; 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. 
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me." 



Sair gloomed his dark brow ; blood-red his 

cheek grew ; 
Wild flashed the fire frae his red-rolling ee ! 
"Ye's rue sair this morning your boasting 

and scorning. 
Defend ye, fause traitor ; fu' loudly ye lie ! " 

" Awa wi' beguiling," cried the youth smihng ; 
Aff gade the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee ; 
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom 

sha'ing. 
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark-roUing 

ee! 

"Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing? 

Is it my true-love here that I see ? " 

"O, Jamie, forgie me! your heart's constant 

to me — 
I '11 never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee." 
Heotok Maciteil, 



SERRAITA. 

I fe'ee on the border 

Saw girl fair as Rosa, 
The charming milk-maiden 

Of sweet Finojosa. 

Once making a journey 

To Santa Maria 
Of Calataveno, 

From weary desire 
Of sleep, down a vaUey 

I strayed, where young Rosa 
I saw, the milk-maiden 

Of lone Finojosa. 

In a pleasant green meadow, 

'Midst roses and grasses. 
Her herd she was tending, 

With other fair lasses ; 
So lovely her aspect, 

I could not suppose her 
A simple milk-maiden 

Of rude Finojosa. 

I think not primroses 

Have half her smile's sweetness, 
Or mild, modest beauty ; 

I speak with discreetness. 



280 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



0, had I beforehand 
But known of this Eosa, 

The lovely milk-maiden 
Of fair Finojosa I 

Her very great beauty 

Had not so subdued, 
Because it had left me, 

To do as I would ! 
I have said more, O fair one. 

By learning 't was Kosa, 
The charming milk-maiden 

Of sweet Finojosa. 

Lope de Mendoza. (Spanish.) 
Translation of Thomas Eoscoe. 



ZAEA'S EAK-KINGS. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they 've dropped 

into the well, 
And what to say to Muga, I cannot, cannot 

teU— 
'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke 

Albuharez' daughter : — 
The well is deep — far down they lie, beneath 

the cold blue water ; 
To me did Muga give them, when he spake 

his sad farewell. 
And what to say when he comes back, alas ! 

I caimot tell. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were 

pearls in silver set, 
That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er 

should him forget ; 
That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor 

smile on other's tale. 
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure 

as those ear-rings pale. 
When he comes back, and hears that I have 

dropped them in the well. 
Oh I what will Muga think of me ! — ^I cannot, 

cannot tell I 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — She'll say they 

should have been, 
ITot of pearl and of silver, but of gold and 

glittering sheen, 



Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shin- 
ing clear, 

Changing to the changing light, with radiance 
insincere ; 

That changeful mind unchanging gems are 
not befitting well. 

Thus will he think — and what to say, alas I 
I cannot tell. 

He '11 think, when I to market went I loitered 

by the way; , 

He '11 think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 

might say ; 
He '11 think some other lover's hand, among 

my tresses noosed. 
From the ears where he had placed them my 

rings of pearl unloosed ; 
He '11 think when I was sporting so beside 

his marble well 
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! I 

cannot tell. 

He '11 say, I am a woman, and we are all the 

same; 
He'll say, I loved, when he was here to 

whisper of his flame — 
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth 

had broken, 
And thought no more of Mu§a, and cared not 

for his token. 
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings : oh ! luckless, 

luckless well, — 
For what to say to Muga — alas ! I cannot tell. 

I'll tell the truth to Mu§a — and I hope he 
will believe — 

That I thought of him at morning and thought 
of him at eve ; 

That, musing on my lover, when down the 
sun was gone, 

His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the foun- 
tain all alone ; 

And that my mind was o'er the sea, when 
from my hand they fell. 

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as 
they lie in the well. 

Anonymous. (Spanish.) 

Translation of John Gibson Lookhaet. 



WATCH SONG. 



231 



THE SPINNIITG-WHEEL SONG. 

Mellow the moonliglit to shine is beginning ; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spin- 
ning; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, 

sitting. 
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- 
ting— 
"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
"'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass 

flapping." 
" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
"'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer 

wind dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot's stirring; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
singing. 

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, 

I wonder ? " 
"'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 

under." 
" What makes you be shoving sthd moving 

your stool on, 
And smging all wrong that old song of ' The 

Coolun?'" 
There's a form at the casement — t]).Q form of 

her true love — 
And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm wait- 
ing for you, love ; 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 

lightly. 
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's 

shining brightly." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot's stirring; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 

singing. 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays 

her fingers, 
Steals up from her seat — ^longs to go, and yet 

lingers ; 



A frightened glance turns to her drowsy 
grandmother. 

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel 
with the other. 

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's 
sound ; 

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 

The maid steps — ^then leaps to the arms of 
her lover. 

Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel 
swings ; 

Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings ; 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ring- 
ing and moving. 

Through the grove the young lovers by moon- 
light are roving. 

John Fbancis Wallee. 



WATCH SONG. 

The sun is gone down. 

And the moon upward springeth ; 
The night creepeth onward ; 

The nightingale singeth. 
To himself said a watchman, 

" Is any knight waiting 
In pain for his lady. 

To give her his greeting ? 

Now, then, for their meeting ! " 

His words heard a knight, 
In the garden while roaming : 

"Ah, watchman! " he said, 
" Is the daylight fast coming ? 

And may I not see her. 
And wilt not thou aid me ? " 

" Go, wait in thy covert. 
Lest the cock crow reveilM, 
And the dawn should betray thee." 

Then in went that watchman. 

And called for the fair ; 
And gently he roused her : 

" Else, lady ! prepare ! 
New tidings I bring thee. 

And strange to thine ear ; 
Come, rouse thee up quickly — 

Thy knight tarries near ; 

Eise, lady ! appear ! " 



232 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Ah, watchman-! though pui'ely 

The moon shines above, 
Yet trust not securely 

That feigned tale of love. 
Far, far from my presence 

My own knight is straying ; 
And, sadly repining, 

I mourn his long staying, 

And weep his delaying." 

" Nay, lady ! yet trust me, 

No falsehood is there." 
Then up sprang that lady 

And braided her hair, 
And donned her white garment, 

Her purest of white ; 
And her heart with joy trembling, 

She rushed to the sight 

Of her own faithful knight. 

Anonymous. (German.) 
Translation of Edgae Tatloe. 



LOVE. 



All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
"Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay. 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the arm6d man. 
The statue of the armed night ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her gi-ieve. 



I played a soft and doleful air ; 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old, rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined — and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
"With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
"With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain- woods, 
N"or rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death, 
The Lady of the Land. 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 



THE OLD STOEY. 



233 



And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
"When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 

His dying words— but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight — 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
And lite the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved ; she stepped aside — 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye. 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms ; 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 't was a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 

Samttel Tayloe Coleeidge. 



THE OLD STOEY. 

He came across the meadow-pass, 

That summer eve of eves — 
The sun-light streamed along the grass 

And glanced amid the leaves ; 
And from the shrubbery below, 

And from the garden trees. 
He heard the thrushes' music flow 

And humming of the bees ; 
The garden-gate was swung apart — 

The space was brief between ; 
But there, for throbbing of his heart, 

He paused perforce to lean. 

He leaned upon the garden-gate ; 

He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 
"Within the little porch she sate, 

"With woodbine overwreathed ; 
Her eyes upon her work were bent. 

Unconscious who was nigh ; 
But oft the needle slowly went. 

And oft did idle lie ; 
And ever to her lips arose 

Sweet fragments sweetly sung^ 
But ever, ere the notes could close, 

She hushed them on her tongue. 

Her fancies as they come and go, 

Her pure face speaks the while ; 
For now it is a flitting glow. 

And now a breaking smile ; 
And now it is a graver shade, 

"When holier thoughts are there — 
An angel's pinion might be stayed 

To see a sight so fair ; 
But still they hid her looks of light, 

Those downcast eyelids pale — 
Two lovely clouds, so silken white. 

Two lovelier stars that veil. 

The sun at length his burning edge 

Had rested on the hill, 
And, save one thrush "from out the hedge, 

Both bower and grove were still. 
The sun had almost bade farewell ; 

But one reluctant ray 
Still loved within that porch to dwell, 

As charmed there to stay — 



234 



POEMS OF LOYE. 



It stole aslant the pear-tree bough, 
And through the woodbine fringe, 

And kissed the maiden's neck and brow, 
And bathed her in its tinge. 

O, beauty of my heart ! he said, 

O, darling, darling mine ! 
Was ever light of evening shed 

On loveliness like thine ? 
Why should I ever leave this spot, 

But gaze until I die ? 
A moment from that bursting thought 

She felt his footstep nigh. 
One sudden, lifted glance — ^but one — 

A tremor and a start — 
So gently was their greeting done 

That who would guess their heart ? 

Long, long the sun had sunken down, 

And all his golden hail 
Had died away to lines of brown, 

In duskier hues that fail. 
The grasshopper was chirping shrill — 

No other living sound 
Accompanied the tiny rill 

That gurgled under ground — 
No oth'er living sound, unless 

Some spirit bent to hear 
Low words of human tenderness 

And mingling whispers near. 

The stars, like pallid gems at first, 

Deep in the liquid sky, 
Now forth upon the darkness burst. 

Sole kings and lights on high ; 
For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme, 

No rival moonlight strove ; 
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam. 

Nor more majestic Jove. 
But what if hearts there beat that night 

That recked not of the skies. 
Or only felt their imaged light 

In one another's eyes ? 

And if two worlds of hidden thought 

And longing passion met. 
Which, passing human language, sought 

And found an utterance yet ; 
And if they trembled as the flowers 

That droop across the stream, 
And muse the while the starry hours 

Wait o'er them like a dream ; 



And if, when came the parting time. 
They faltered still and clung ; 

What is it all ? — an ancient rhyme 
Ten thousand times besung — 

That part of Paradise which man 
Without the portal knows — 

Which hath been since the world began. 

And shall be till its close. 

Anontmotts. 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladye — 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I '11 wed ye to my youngest son. 

And ye shall be his bride ; 
And ye shall be his bride, ladye, 

Sae comely to be seen." — 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"Now let this wilful grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley dale : 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen." — 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain of gold ye shall not lack. 

Nor braid to bind your hair. 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you the foremost of them a' 

ShaU ride, our forest queen." — 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was decked at morning tide ; 

The tapers glimmered fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And knight and dame are there : 
They sought her both by bower and ha' ; 

The ladye was not seen. — 
She 's o'er the border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

SiE Waltee Scott, 



J 



LOCHINVAR. 



235 



LOOHINYAE. 

0, TOUNG Loclaiiivar is come out of the 
west; 

Through all the wide border his steed was 
the best ; 

And save his good broad-sword he weapons 
had none ; 

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 

There never was knight like the young Loch- 
invar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not 

for stone ; 
He swam the Eske river where ford there 

was none ; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came 

late: 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
"Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochin- 



So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and broth- 
ers, and all ; 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 
his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never 
a word,) 

"0 come ye in peace here, or come ye in 
war. 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochin- 
var ? " 



"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you 

denied — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 

tide — 
And now I am come, with this lost love of 

mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 

wine; 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely 

by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar." 



The bride kissed the goblet — the knight took 

it up; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down 

the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up 

to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 

bar, — 
"."N"ow tread we a measure!" said young 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret and her father did 
fume. 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bon- 
net and plume ; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere 
better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young 
Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her 

ear. 
When they reached the hall door and the 

charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, 

and scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 

young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 

and they ran : 
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of Ketherby ne'er did they 

see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar ? 

SiE Waltee Scott. 



236 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



LOVE m THE VALLEY. 

IJndee yonder beech-tree standing on the 
green sward, 

Couched with her arms behind her little head, 

Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her 
bosom, 

Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 

Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her! 

Press her di*eaming lips as her waist I folded 
slow. 

Waking on the instant she could not but em- 
brace me — 

Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? 

Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the 
swallow ; 

Swift as the swallow when athwart the west- 
ern flood 

Circleting the surface he meets his mirrored 
winglets — 

Is that dear one in her maiden bud. 

Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine 
tops; 

Gentle — ah! that she were jealous — as the 
dove! 

Full of all the wildness of the woodland crea- 
tures, 

Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! 

What can have taught her distrust of all I tell 
her? 

Can she truly doubt me when looking on my 
brows ? 

Kature never teaches distrust of tender love- 
tales — 

What can have taught her distrust of all my 
vows? 

No, she does not doubt me ! on a dewy eve- 
tide 

Whispering together beneath the listening 
moon^ 

I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till 
she faltered — 

Fluttered to my bosom — ah ! to fly away so 
soon ! 

When her mother tends her before the laugh- 
ing mirror, 
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair. 



Often she thinks — were this wild thing 
wedded, 

I should have more love, and much less care. 

When her mother tends her before the bash- 
ful mirror, 

Loosening her laces, combing down her curls. 

Often she thinks — were this wild thing 
wedded, 

I should lose but one for so many boys and 
girls. 

Clambering roses peep into her chamber; 

Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet. 

White-necked swallows, twittering of sum- 
mer. 

Fill her with balm and nested peace from 
head to feet. 

Ah ! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely. 

When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on 
the leaves ? 

Will the Autunm garners see her still un- 
gathered. 

When the fickle swallows forsake the weep- 
ing eaves ? 

Comes a sudden question — should a strange 

hand pluck her ! 
! what an anguish smites me at the thought! 
Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with 

jewels ! — 
Can such beauty ever thus be bought ? 
Sometimes the huntsmen prancing down the 

valley 
Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth ; 
They see, as I see, mine is the fairest ! 
Would she were older and could read my 

worth ! 

Are there not sweet maidens, if she stOl deny 

me? 
Show the bridal heavens but one bright star ? 
Wherefore thus then do I chase a shadow, 
Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar ? 
So I rhyme and reason till she darts before 

me — 
Through the milky meadows from flower to 

flower she flies. 
Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled 

eyelids 
From the golden love that looks too eager in 

her eyes. 



LADY CLARE 



231 



Wlien at dawn she wakens, and her fair face 

gazes 
Out on the weather through the window 

panes, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a white water-lily 
Bursting out of bud on the rippled river 

plains. 
"When from bed she rises clothed from neck 

to ankle 
In her long night gown, sweet as boughs of 

Maj, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily 
Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! 

Happy, happy time, when the gray star twin- 
kles 

Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew ; 

"When the cold-cheeked Dawn grows ruddy 
up the twilight, 

And the gold Sun wakes and weds her in the 
blue. 

Then when my darling tempts the early 
breezes. 

She the only star that dies not with the dark ! 

Powerless to speak all the ardor of my pas- 
sion, 

I catch her little hand as we listen to the 
lark. 

Shall the birds in vain then valentine their 

sweethearts? 
Season after season tell a fruitless tale ? 
"Will not the virgin listen to their voices ? 
Take the honeyed meaning, wear the bridal 

veil? 
Pears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare 

branches ? 
Waits she the garlands of Spring for her 

dower ? 
Is she a nightingale that will not be nested 
Till the April woodland has built her bridal 

bower? 

Then come, merry April, with aU thy birds 
and beauties ! 

With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, 
showery glee ; 

With thy buddmg leafage and fresh green 
pastures ; 

And may thy lustrous crescent grow a hon- 
eymoon for me ! 



Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the 

violet ! 
Obme, weeping Loveliness in all thy blue 

delight ! 
Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish 

longer ! 
Bring her to my arms on the first May night. 
Geoeqe Meeedith. 



LADY OLAEE. 

LoED KoNALD courted Lady Clare, 
I trow they did not part in scorn ; 

Lord Eonald, her cousin, courted her, 
And they wiU wed the morrow morn. 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
'Hot for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse. 

Said, " WTio was this that went from thee ? " 

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
"To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thanked ! " said Alice the nm-se, 
" That aU comes round so just and fau' : 

Lord Eonald is heir of all your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind', my nurse, my 
nurse ? " 

Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" 
"As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 

" I speak the truth : jou are my child. 

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

"Palsely, falsely have ye done, 
O mother," she said, "if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life. 

And aU you have wiU be Lord Eonald's, 
When you are man and wife." 



238 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



"If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
"I will speak ont, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
"But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said "Not so; but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, 
" The man wiU cleave unto his right." 

"And he shaU have it," the lady replied, 
" Though I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother ! " she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so ; 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare ; 
She went by dale, and she went by down 

With a single rose in her hair. 

A lily-white doe Lord Konald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And followed her aU the way. 

Down stept Lord Eonald from his tower : 
" Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid. 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a viUage maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Konald, 
" For I am yours in word and deed ; 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 



and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail ; 
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He ftughed a laugh of merry scorn ; 

He turned and kissed her where she stood ; 
"If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, "the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, "the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 

Alfeed Tennyson. 



DORA. 

With farmer AUan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son, 
And she his niece. He often looked at them, 
And often thought, "I'U make them man 

and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's wiU in all, 
And yearned towards William ; but the youth, 

because 
He had been always with her in the house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan caUed his son, and said, "My 

son: 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter ; he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he 

died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; 
For I have wished this marriage, night and 

day. 
For many years." But William answered 

short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and 

said : 



DORA, 



239 



"You will not, boy! you dare to answer 

thus! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; 
Consider, "William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again ! " 
But "William answered madly ; bit his lips. 
And broke away. The more he looked at 

her 
The less he liked her; and his ways were 

harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house. 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and 

wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan 

called 
His niece and said: "My girl, I love you 

well; 
But if you speak with him that was my son. 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
"It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will change ! " 
And days went on, and there was born a 

boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he passed his father's gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 

know 
"Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On "William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And looked with tears upon her boy, and 

thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
And I have sinned, for it was all through me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 
And for this orphan, I am come to you. 
You know there has not been for these five 

years 



So fall a harvest ; let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat; that when his heart is 



Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone." 
• And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him. 
But her heart failed her; and the reapers 

reaped. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose and 
took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer passed into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said, " Where were you yes- 
terday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing 

here?" 
So Ddra cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answered softly, "This is William's 

child!" 
"And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora? " Dora said again : 
"Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 



gone 



!" 



And Allan said, "I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you 

dared 
To sHght it. WeU— for I wiU take the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers 

feU 
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bowed down 

her head. 



240 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Kemembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bowed 

down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Maiy's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praiSe 
To God, that helped her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you ; 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answered Mary, " This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy- 
self; 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him harshness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I wUl live within one house. 
And work for William's child until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kissed 
Each other, and set out and reached the farm. 
The door was off the latch ; they peeped and 

saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the 

cheeks, 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretched 

out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch and sparkled by the 

fire. 
Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said : 
"0 father! — ^if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 
O, sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I asked him, and he said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying me. — 
I had been a patient wife : but, sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus ; 
' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never 

know 



The troubles I have gone through ! ' Then 

he turned 
His face and passed — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to 

slight 
His father's memory; and take Dora back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 
' ' I have been to blame — to blame ! I have 

killed my son ! 
I have killed him — ^but I loved him — ^my dear 

son! 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children ! " 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kissed him many 

times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold ; 
And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's 

child, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 

AXTKED TeNNTSON. 



THE LETTERS. 



Still on the tower stood the vane , 

A black yew gloomed the stagnant air ; 
I peered athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 



I turned and hummed a bitter song 
That mocked the wholesome human heart ; 

And then we met in wrath and wrong. 
We met, but only meant to part. 



SONNETS. 



241 



Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



m. 

She took the little ivory chest — 

With half a sigh she turned the key ; 
Then raised her head with lips comprest, 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I looked on these. 



IV. 

She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar. 
She talked as if her love were dead ; 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" IsTo more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone — 

The woman cannot be believed. 



" Through slander, meanest spawn of hell 

(And woman's slander is the worst). 
And you, whom once I loved so well — 

Through you my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

"We rushed into each other's arms. 



We parted. Sweetly gleamed the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue ; 
Low breezes fanned the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appeared to smile. 

So fresh they rose in shadowed swells ; 
"Dark porch," I said, "and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage bells." 

Alfeed Tennyson. 



16 



SONNETS. 

When I do count the clock that tells the 

time. 
And see the brave day sunk in hideous 

night ; 
When I behold the violet past prime. 
And sable curls all sUvered o'er with white ; 
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves ; 
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. 
And Summer's green all gu'ded up in sheaves. 
Borne on the bier with white and bristly 

beard ; 
Then, of thy beauty do I question make. 
That thou among the wastes of time must go. 
Since sweets and beauties do themselves for- 
sake. 
And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
And nothing 'gainst- Time's scythe can 

make defence. 
Save breed, to brave him, when he takes 
thee hence. 



Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate ; 
Eough winds do shake the darling buds of 

May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed. 
And every fair from fair sometime declines. 
By chance, or nature's changing course, un- 

trimmed ; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his 

shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can 

see. 
So long lives this, and this gives life to 

thee. 



So is it not with me as with that Muse, 
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse ; 
Who Heaven itself for ornament doth use. 
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ; 



242 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Making a compliment of proud compare, 
With Sun and Moon, with earth and sea's 

rich gems, 
With April's first-born flowers, and all things 

rare 
That Heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. 
O let me, true in love, but truly write. 
And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother's child, though not so bright 
As those gold candles fixed in Heaven's air : 
Let them say more that like of hearsay 

well; 
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. 



Let those who are in favor with their stars, 
Of public honor and proud titles boast ; 
Whilst I, whom Fortune of such triumph 

bars, 
Unlooked for joy in that I honor most. 
Great princes' favorites their fair leaves 

spread, 
But as the marigold, at the Sun's eye ; 
And in themselves their pride lies buried, 
For at a frown they in their glory die. 
The painful warrior famoused for fight, 
After a thousand victories once foiled. 
Is from the book of honor rased quite, 
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved. 
Where I may not remove nor be removed. 



When in disgrace with fortune and men's 

eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless 

cries, 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 
Featured like him, like him with friends pos- 
sessed. 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- 
spising, 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state 
(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hynms at heaven's 
gate. 



For thy sweet love remembered such wealth 

brings. 
That then I scorn to change my state with 

kings. 



When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste. 
Then, can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless 

night. 
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled 

woe. 
And iQoan th' expense of many a vanished 

sight. 
Then, can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
Which I new pay, as if not paid before ; 
But if the while I think on thee, deaj 

friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 



Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts. 
Which I by lacking have supposed dead ; 
And there reigns Love, and all love's loving 

parts, 
And all those friends which I thought buried. 
How many a holy and obsequious tear 
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye. 
As interest of the dead, which now appear 
But things removed, that hidden in thee lie ! 
Thou art the grave where buried Love doth 

live, 
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone. 
Who all their parts of me to thee did give ; 
That due of many now is thine alone : 
Their images I loved I view in thee. 
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. 



Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye. 
Kissing* with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy ; 



SONNETS. 



243 



Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
"With iiglj rack on liis celestial face, 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
Even so my sun one early morn did shine. 
With all triumphant splendor on my brow ; 
But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine, 
The region cloud hath masked him from me 

now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdain- 

eth; 
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's 

sun staineth. 



Why didst thou promise such a beauteous 

day, 
And make me travel forth without my cloak, 
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way. 
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 
'T is not enough that through the cloud thou 

break. 
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, 
For no man well of such a salve can speak. 
That heals the wound, and cures not the dis- 
grace ; 
'Not can thy shame give physic to my grief — 
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss. 
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief 
To him that bears the strong offence's cross. 
Ah ! but those tears are pearl, which thy 

love sheds. 
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. 



Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits. 
When I am sometime absent from thy heart. 
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits ; 
For still temptation follows where thou art. 
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won ; 
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed; 
And when a woman woos, what woman's son 
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed ? 
Ah me ! but yet thou might'st my seat for- 
bear. 
And chide thy Beauty and thy straying Youth, 
Who lead thee in their riot even there 
Where thou art forced to break a two-fold 
truth : 



Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee. 
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. 



What is your substance, whereof are you 

made. 
That millions of strange shadows on you 

tend? 
Since every one hath, every one, one shade. 
And you, but one, can every shadow lend. 
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 
Is poorly imitated after you ; 
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set. 
And you in Grecian tires are painted new; 
Speak of the Spring, and foison of the year — 
The one doth shadow of your beauty show. 
The other as your bounty doth appear ; 
And you in every blessed shape we know. 
In all external grace you have some part ; 
But you like none, none you, for constant 

heart. 



O, HOW much more doth beauty beauteous 

seem, 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth 

give! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
The canker-blooms have fuU as deep a dye 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses — 
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
When Summer's breath their masked buds 

discloses ; 
But, for their virtue only is their show ; 
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade — 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors 

made: 
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth. 
When that shall fade, my verse distils your 

truth. 



Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 

Of princes, shall out-live this powerful rhyme ; 

But you shall shine more bright in these con- 
tents 

Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish 
time. 



244 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



When wasteful war sliall statues overturn, ' 
And broils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mai's his sword, nor War's quick fire 

shall burn 
The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth : your praise shall still 

find room 
Even in the eyes of all posterity, 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 



That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect. 
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; 
The ornament of beauty is suspect, 
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. 
So thou be good, slander doth but approve 
Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time ; 
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, 
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. 
Thou hast past by the ambush of young days, 
Either not assailed, or victor being charged ; 
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, 
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged. 

If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, 
Then, thou alone kingdoms of hearts 
shouldst owe. 



So are you to my thoughts, as food to life. 
Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the 

ground ; 
And for the peace of you I hold such strife 
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found : 
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon 
Doubting the filching age wiU steal his trea- 
sure; 
Now counting best to be with you alone, 
Then bettered that the world may see my 

pleasure ; 
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight. 
And by and by clean starved for a look ; 
Possessing or pursuing no delight. 
Save what is had or must from you be took. 
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day ; 
Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 



Faeewell ! thou art too dear for my possess- 
ing, 

And like enough thou know'st thy estimate ; 

The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 

My bonds in thee are all determinate. 

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? 

And for that riches where is my deserving ? 

The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting. 

And so my patent back again is swerving. 

Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not 
knowing, 

Or me, to whom gav'st it, else mistaking; 

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, 

Comes home again, on better judgment mak- 
ing. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth 

flatter, 
In sleep a king ; but waking, no such matter. 



Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; 
Some say thy grace is youth, and gentle sport; 
Both grace and faults are loved of more and 

less: 
Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. 
As on the finger of a throned queen 
The basest jewel will be weU esteemed. 
So are those errors that in thee are seen 
To truths translated, and for true things 

deemed. 
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray. 
If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! 
How many gazers might'st thou lead away. 
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy 
state ! 
But do not so ; I love thee in such sort 
As thou being mine, mine is thy good re- 
port. 



How like a Winter hath my absence been 
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days 

seen. 
What old December's bareness every where ! 
And yet this time removed was Summer's 

time; 
The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, 
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, 
Like widowed wombs after their lords' de- 
cease. 



SONNETS. 



245 



Yet this abundant issue seemed to me 
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit ; 
For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, 
That leaves look pale, dreading the win- 
ter's near. 



Feom you nave I been absent in the Spring, 
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his 

trim. 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. 
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with 

him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odor and in hue. 
Could make me any Summer's story tell. 
Or from their proud laf pluck them where 

they grew ; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight. 
Drawn after you — ^you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away. 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 



The forward violet thus did I chide : — 
Sweet thie^ whence didst thou steal thy 

sweet that smells, 
If not from my love's breath? the purple 

pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion 

dwells. 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair ; 
The roses fearfuUy on thorns did stand. 
One blushing shame, another white despair ; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ; 
But for his theft, in pride of aU his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. 
But sweet in color it had stolen from thee. 



Whex in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 



And beauty making beautiful old rhyme. 
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights. 
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best. 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, -of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have expressed 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
And for they looked but with divining eyes. 
They had not skill enough your worth to sing; 

For we, which now behold these present 
days. 

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to 
praise. 



Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to 

come. 
Can yet the lease of my true love control. 
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. 
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured. 
And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; 
Incertainties now crown themselves assured, 
And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
Now, with the drops of this most balmy time 
My love looks fresh, and death to me sub- 
scribes. 
Since, spite of him, I '11 live in this poor rhyme. 
While he insults o'er duU and speechless 
tribes : 
And thou in this shalt find thy monument. 
When tyrants' crests, and tombs of brass 
are spent. 



Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments : love is not love. 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove. 
no ! it is an ever-fixed mark. 
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark. 
Whose worth's unknown, although his height 

be taken. 
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 

cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 



2-4(5 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



! NEVEE say that I was false of heart. 
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify. 
As easy might I from myself depart, 
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth 

lie. 
That is my home of love ; if I have ranged, 
Like him that travels, I return again — 
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged; 
So that myself bring water for my stain. 
Never believe, though in my nature reigned 
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood. 
That it could so preposterously be stained. 
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 
For nothing this wide universe I call. 
Save thou, my Eose ; in it thou art my all. 

Shakesp] 



SONNETS. 

Come Sleep, Sleep! the certain knot of 

peace. 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ; 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent Judge between the high and 

low! 
With shield of proof, shield me from out the 

prease 
Of those fierce darts despair doth at me 

throw. 

make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 

bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head ; 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 



In martial sports I had my cunning tried. 
And yet to break more staves did me address ; 
While with the people's shouts, I must confess. 
Youth, luck, and praise e'en fiUed my veins 
with pride ; 



When Cupid having me, his slave, descried 

In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 

" What now. Sir Fool ? " said he, "I would 

no less ; 
Look here I say." — I looked, and SteUa spied, 
Who, hard by, made a window send forth 

ligtt; 
My heart then quaked ; then dazzled were 

mine eyes ; 
One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight ; 
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly 

cries. 
My foe came on and beat the air for me. 
Till that her blush taught me my shame to 



HAPPY Thames, tljat didst my Stella bear ! 

1 saw myself, with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear. 
While those fair planets on thy streams did 

shine ; 
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; 
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 
Eavished, staid not tiU in her golden hair 
They did themselves, O sweetest prison! 

twine; 
And fain those Eol's youth there would their 

stay 
Have made, but forced by Nature stiU to fly. 
First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 
She so dishevelled, blushed : — from window I, 
With sight thereof, cried out, fair disgrace ! 
Let Honor's self to thee grant highest place. 



With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the skies — 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
What! may it be, that even in heavenly 

place 
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace ; 
To me that feel the like thy state descries. 
Then even of fellowship, Moon, tell me — 
Is constant love deemed there but want of 

wit? 



SONGS. 247 


Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 


* 


Bo they above love to be loved, and yet 


PHILLIDA AKD CORYDON. 


Those lovers scorn whom that love doth 




possess ? 


In the merrie moneth of Maye, 


Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 


In a morne by break of daye. 


SiE Philip Sidnet. 


With a troupe of dam sells playing. 




Forth I yode forsooth a-maying ; 
Where anon by a wood side. 




SONISTET. 


Where as May was in his pride, 




I espied all alone 


I KNOW that all beneath the Moon decays ; 


Phillida and Corydon. 


And what by mortals in this world is brought, 




In time's great periods shall return to nought; 


Much adoe there was, God wot ; 


That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 


He wold love, and she wold not. 


I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays. 


She sayd never man was trewe ; 


With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 


He sayes none was false to you. 


As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; 




That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 


He sayde hee had lovde her longe 


I know frail beauty 's like the purple flower 


She sayes love should have no wronge. 


To which one morn oft birth and death af- 


Corydon wold kisse her then : 


fords; 


She sayes maids must kisse no men, 


That love a jarring is of mind's accords, 




Where sense and will bring under reason's 


TyU they doe for good and all. 


power : 


When she made the shepperde call 


Know what I list, this all cannot me move, 


All the heavens to wytnes truthe. 


But that, alas ! I both must write and love. 


Kever loved a truer youthe. 


William Dettmhond. 






Then with many a prettie othe. 




Yea, and naye, and faithe and trothe — 




Such as seelie shepperdes use 


SOKNET. 


When they wiU not love abuse — 


If it be true that any beauteous thing 


Love, that had bene long deluded, 


Raises the pure and just desire of man 


Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 


From earth to God, the eternal Fount of ah. 


And PhiUida with garlands gaye 


Such I believe my love : for as in her 


Was made the ladye of the Maye. 


So fair, in whom I aU besides forget, 


Nicholas Bebton. 


I view the gentle work of her Creator, 
I have no care for any other thing. 






Whilst thus I love. Kor is it marvellous. 




Since the effect is not of my own power. 


LOVE IS A SICKNESS. 


If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth, 




Enamored through the eyes. 


Love is a sickness full of woes. 


Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth. 


All remedies refusing ; 


And through them riseth to the primal Love, 


A plant that most with cutting grows, 


As to its end, and honors in admiring ; 


Most barren with best using. 


For who adores the Maker needs must love 


Why so ? 


his work. 


More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 


Michael Augelo. (Italian.) 


If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 


Translation of J. E. Taylor. 


Heigh-ho ! 



248 



POEMS OF LOYE. 



Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove liath made it of a kind, 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samuel Daniel. 



THE WHITE KOSE. 

SENT BY A YOEKCSH LOVER TO HIS LANOAS- 
TEIAJSr MISTEESS. 

If this fair rose offend thy sight. 
Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'T will blush to find itself less white, 
And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy, 
As kiss it thou mayest deign. 
With envy pale 't will lose its dye, 
And Yorkish turn again. 

AuONYMOtrS. 



TEIUMPH OF CHAEIS. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love ! 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that di*aws is a swan, or a dove. 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty. 
And, enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes ! they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth ; 

Do but look on her hair I it is bright 
As Love's star when it riseth ! 

Do but mark — ^her forehead 's smoother 
Than words that soothe her ! 



And from her arched brows such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face, 
As alone there triumphs to the life. 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
strife. 



Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall of the snow, 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 

Or swan's down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier ? 

Or the nard i' the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
0, so white ! 0, so soft ! O, so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jonson. 



AK EAEKEST SUIT 

TO HIS TrnKESTD MISTEESS NOT TO FOE SAKE HIM. 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! for shame ! 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame. 
And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus,' 
TJiat hath loved thee so long. 
In wealth and woe among ? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thns ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus. 
That hath given thee my heart, 
IsTever for to depart, 
Neither for pain nor smart ? 
And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thon leave me thus, 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee ? 
Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay 1 

Sm Thomas Wyat. 



SONGS. 249 




For this beauty still doth hide 


DISOOUESE WITH CUPID. 


Something more than thou hast spied. 




Outward grace weak Love beguiles : 


Noblest Oharis, you that are 


She is Yenus when she smiles. 


Both my fortune and my star ! 


But she 's Juno when she walks, 


And do govern more my blood, 


And Minerva when she talks." 


Than the various moon the flood ! 


Ben Jonson. • 


Hear what late discourse of you 
Love and I have had ; and true. 






'Mongst my muses finding me 




Where he chanced your name to see 


TO CELIA. 


Set, and to this softer strain : 




" Sure^" said he, " if I have brain, 


Deink to me only with thine eyes. 


This here sung can be no other 


And I will pledge with mine ; 


By description, but my mother ! 


Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 


So hath Homer praised her hair ; 


And I'll not look for wine. 


So Anacreon drawn the air 


The thirst that from the soul doth rise 


Of her face, and made to rise, 


Doth ask a di-ink divine ; 


Just about her sparkling eyes, 


But might I of Jove's nectar sup. 


Both her brows, bent like my bow. 


I would not change for thine. 


, By her looks I do her know, 




Which you caU my shafts. And see ! 


I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath. 


Such my mother's blushes be. 


Not so much honoring thee, 


As the bath your verse discloses 


As giving it a hope that there 


In her cheeks of milk and roses ; 


It could not withered be. 


Such as oft I wanton in. 


But thou thereon did'st only breathe, 


And above her even chin. 


And sent'st it back to me ; 


Have you placed the bank of kisses 


Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear. 


Where, you say, men gather bhsses. 


Not of itself, but thee. 


Kipened with a breath more sweet. 


Philosteatxts. (Greek.) 


Than when flowers and west winds meet. 


Translation of Ben Jonson. 


Nay, her white and polished neck, 




With the lace that doth it deck, 




Is my mother's ! hearts of slain 




Lovers, made into a chain ! 


CUPID AND CAlVrPASPE. 


And between each rising breast 




Lies the valley called my nest, 


Cupid and my Campaspe played 


Where I sit and proyne my wings 


At cards for kisses — Cupid paid ; 


After flight ; and put new strings 


He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows. 


To my shafts ! Her very name. 


His mother's doves, and team of sparrows — 


With my mother's is the same." 


Loses them too ; then down he throws 


" I confess all," I replied. 


The coral of his lip, the rose 


" And the glass hangs by her side, 


Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how) ; 


And the girdle 'bout her waist, 


With these the crystal of his brow. 


All is Yenus ; save unchaste. 


And then the dimple of his chin ; , 


But, alas ! thou seest the least 


AU these did my Campaspe win. 


Of her good, who is the best 


At last he set her both his eyes ; 


Of her sex ; but couldst thou, Love, 


She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 


Call to mind the forms that strove 


Love ! has she done this to thee ? 


For the apple, and those three 


What shall, alas ! become of me ? 


Make in one, the same were she. 


John Ltly. 



250 POEMS OF LOVE. 




Eeason masters every sense. 


HEAE, YE LADIES. 


And her virtues grace her birth ; 




Lovely as all excellence, 


Hear, ye ladies that despise 


Modest in her most of mirth. 


What the mighty Love hath done ; 


Likelihood enough to prove 


Hear examples, and be wise : 


Only worth could kindle love. 


Fair Oalisto was a nmi ; 




Leda sailing on the stream, 
To deceive the hopes of man, 
Love accounting but a dream, 
Doted on a silver swan ; 


Such she is ; and if you know 
Such a one as I have sung ; 
Be she brown, or fair, or so 

That she be but somewhat young ; 




Be assured 't is she, or none. 


Danae in a brazen tower. 

Where no love was, loved a shower. 


That I love, and love alone. 




William Beowne. 


Hear, ye ladies that are coy, 
What the mighty Love can do ; 




♦ 


Hear the fierceness of the boy ; 




The chaste Moon he makes to w.oo. 


BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR. 


Vesta kindling holy fires, 




Circled round about with spies. 


Beauty clear and fair, 


Never dreaming loose desires, 


Where the air 


Doting at the altar dies. 


Eather like a perfume dwells ; 


Hion in a short tower higher, 


Where the violet and the rose 


He can once more build and once more 


Their blue veins in blush disclose. 


fire. 


And came to honor nothing else ; 


Beaumont and Fletcheb. 






Where to live near, 




And planted there. 


♦ 




Is to live, and still live new ; 


SHALL I TELL. 


Where to gain a favor is 




More than light, perpetual bliss, — 


Shall 1 tell you whom I love ? 


Make me live by serving you ! 


Hearken then a while to me ; 




And if such a woman move 


Dear, again back recall 


As 1 now shall versify, 
Be assured 'tis she, or none. 
That I love, and love alone. 


To this light 
A stranger to himself and all ; 
Both the wonder and the story 
Shall be yours, and eke the glory ; 


Nature did her so much right 


I am your servant, and your thrall. 


As she scorns the help of art. 


Beaumont and Fletcheb. 


In as many virtues dight 

As e'er yet embraced a heart. 






So much good so truly tried, 




Some for less were deified. 


SPEAK, LOVE! 


Wit she hath, without desire 


Deaeest, do not delay me. 


To make known how much she hath ; 


Since, thou knowest, I must be gone ; 


And her anger flames no higher 


Wind and tide, 't is thought, do stay me ; 


Than may fitly sweeten wrnth. 


But 't is wind that must be blown 


Full of pity as may be. 


From that breath, whose native smeU 


Though perhaps not so to me. 


Indian odors far excel. 



SONGS. 251 


Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair ! 


So when my mistress shall be seen 


Kill not him that vows to serve thee ; 


In sweetness of her looks and mind ; 


Rut perfume this neighboring air, 


By virtue first, then choice, a queen — 


Else dull silence, sure, will starve me ; 


Tell me, if she was not designed 


'T is a word that 's quickly spoken, 


Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 


"Which, being restrained, a heart is broken. 


SiE Henet Wotton. 


Beaumont and Fletchee. 


, 




THE LOVER TO THE GLOW-WORMS. 


TAKE, OH! TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 


Ye living lamps, by whose dear light 




The nightingale does sit so late. 


Take, oh ! take those lips away 


And, studying all the summer night, 


That so sweetly were forsworn. 


Her matchless songs does meditate ! 


And those eyes, like break of day, 




Lights that do mislead the morn ! 


Ye country comets, that portend 


But my kisses bring again. 


No war, nor prince's funeral, 


Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 


Shining unto no other end 




Than to presage the grass's fall ! 


Hide, oh ! hide those hills of snow 




Which thy frozen bosom bears. 


Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame 


jOn whose tops the pinks that grow 


To wandering mowers shows the way. 


Are of those that April wears. 


That in the night have lost their aim. 


But first set my poor heart free, 


And after foolish fires do stray ! 


Bound in those icy chains by thee. 




Shakespeake, and John Fletchee. 


Your courteous lights in vain you waste. 




Since Juliana here is come ; 




For she my mind hath so displaced. 
That I shall never find my home. 


• 




Andeew Mabyhll. 


YE MEANER BEAUTIES. 
You meaner beauties of the night, 






That poorly satisfy our eyes 


MRS. ELIZ. WHEELER, 


More by your numbers than your light — 


UNDER THE NAME OP THE LOST SHEPHEEDESS. 


You common people of the skies — 




What are you when the moon shall rise ? 


Amon& the myrtles as I walkt. 




Love and my sighs thus intertalkt ; 


Ye violets that first appear. 
By your pure purple mantles known, 

fiike the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own — 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 


Tell me, said I, in deep distress. 

Where I may find my Shepherdess. 

Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this ? 

In every thing that 's sweet, she is. 

In yond' carnation go and seek, 

Where thou shalt find her lip and cheek; 




In that enamelled pansy by. 


Ye curious chanters of the wood. 


There thou shalt have her curious eye ; 


That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 


In bloom of peach and rose's bud. 


Thinking your passions understood 


There waves the streamer of her blood. 


By your weak accents — what's your praise 


'Tis true, said I; and thereupon, 


When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 


I went to pluck them, one by one, 



252 



POEMS OF LOVE 



To make of parts an union ; 

But on a sudden all were gone. 

At wliich I stopt ; said Love, these be 

The true resemblances of thee ; 

For as these flowers, thy joys must die. 

And in the turning of an eye ; 

And all thy hopes of her must wither, 

Like those short sweets ere knit together. 

KOBEET HeeEIOK. 



PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG. 

LoYE is the blossom where there blows 
Every thing that lives or grows. 
Love doth make the Heavens to move. 
And the sun doth burn in love. 
Love the strong and weak doth yoke. 
And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
Under whose shadows lions wild, 
Softened by love, grow tame and mild. 
Love no med'cine can appease ; 
He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
Not all the skill his wounds can stench ; 
Not all the sea his fire can quench. 
Love did make the bloody spear 
Once a heavy coat to wear ; 
While in his leaves there shrouded lay 
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play ; 
And of all love's joyful flame, 
I the bud and blossom am. 

Only bend thy knee to me. 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
See, see the flowers that below 
Now as fresh as morning blow ; 
And of all, the virgin rose. 
That as bright Aurora shows — 
How they all unleaved die. 
Losing their virginity ; 
Like unto a summer-shade. 
But now born, and now they fade. 
Every thing doth pass away ; 
There is danger in delay. 
Come, come gather then the rose. 
Gather it, or it you lose. 
All the sand of Tagus' shore 
Into my bosom casts his ore ; 
All the valleys' swimming com 
To my house is yearly borne ; 



Every grape of every vine 
Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; 
While ten thousand kings, as proud 
To carry up my train, have bowed ; 
And a world of ladies send me. 
In my chambers to attend me. 
All the stars in Heaven that shine, 
And ten thousand more are mine : 
Only bend thy knee to me. 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
Giles Fletchee. 



OASTARA. 

Like the violet, which alone 

Prospers in some happy shade, 

My Castara lives unknown. 

To no ruder eye betrayed ; 

For she 's to herself untrue 
Who delights 1' the public view . 

Such is her beauty as no arts 
Have enriched with borrowed grace. 
Her high birth no pride imparts. 
For she blushes m her place. 

Folly boasts a glorious blood, — 

She is noblest being good. 

Cautious, she knew never yet 

What a wanton courtship meant ; 

Nor speaks loud to boast her wit. 

In her silence, eloquent. 

Of herself survey she takes. 

But 'tween men no difierence makes. 

She obeys with speedy will 

Her grave parents' wise commands ; 

And so innocent, that ill 

She nor acts, nor understands. 
Women's feet run still astray 
If to ill they know the way. 

She sails by that rock, the court, 
Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 
And retiredness thinks the port. 
Where her fame may anchor cast. 
Virtue safely cannot sit 
Where vice is enthroned for wit. 



SONGS. 253 


She holds that day's pleaanre best 


^ 


Where sin waits not on delight ; 


THE NIGHT PIECE. 


Without mask, or ball, or feast, 




Sweetly spends a winter's night. 


TO JHTTA. 


O'er that darkness whence is thrust 




Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 


Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 




The shooting-starres attend thee ; 




And the elves also. 


She her throne makes Eeason climb, ■ 


Whose little eyes glow 


While wild passions captive lie ; 


Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 


And each article of time. 




Her pure thoughts to Heaven fly ; 


No WiU-o'-th '-Wispe mislight thee. 


All her vows religious be, 


Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 


And she vows her love to me. 


But on thj way, 


William HABinaTOK. 


Not making stay, 




Since ghost there 's none t' fl,flTight thee ! 
Let not the darke thee cumber ; 






What though the moon does slumber? 


CANZONET. 


The stars of the night 




Will lend thee their light, 


The golden sun that brings the day, 


Like tapers cleare, without number. 


And lends men light to see withal, 




In vain doth cast his beams away. 


Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 


When they are blind on whom they fall ; 
There is no force in all his hght 


Thus, thus to come unto me ; 


And when I shall meet 


To give the mole a perfect sight. 


Thy silvery feet, 




My soule I 'le pour into thee f 




EOBEET HbEEICK. 


But thou, my sun, more bright than he 




That shines at noon in summer tide. 


• 


Hast given me light and power to see, 




With perfect skiU my sight to guide ; 


TO LTJCASTA, 


Till now I lived as blind as mole 




That hides her head in earthly hole. 


OlS GOING TO THE WAES. 




Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 


I heard the praise of Beauty's grace. 


That from the nunnerie 


Yet deemed it nought but poet's skill; 


Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde. 


I gazed on many a lovely face, 


To warre and armes I flee. 


Yet found I none to bend my will ; 




Which made me think that beauty bright 


True, a new mistresse now I chase — 
The first foe in the field ; 


Was nothing else but red and white. 




And with a stronger faith imbrace 


But now thy beams have cleared my sight, 


A sword, a horse, a shield. 


I blush to think I was so blind ; 




Thy flaming eyes afford me light. 


Yet this inconstancy is such, 


That beauty's blaze each where I find ; 


As you, too, shall adore ; 


And yet those dames that shine so bright 


I could not love thee, deare, so much. 


Are but the shadows of thy light. 


Loved I not honor more. 


Thomas Watson. 


ElOHAKD LOVELAOB. 



254 POEMS OF LOVE. 




When, like committed linnets I 


DISDAIN EETURNED. 


With shriller throat shaU sing 




The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 


He that loves a rosy cheek, 


And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be. — 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 


Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires — 
As old Time makes these decay, 


So his flames must waste away. 


Stone walls do not a prison make. 




Nor iron bars a cage ; 


But a smooth and steadfast mind, 


Minds innocent and quiet take 


Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 


That for an hermitage. 


Hearts with equal love combined, 


If I have freedom in my love, 


Kindle never-dying fires. 


And in my soul am free — 


Where these are not, I despise 


Angels alone, that soar above. 


Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 


Enjoy such liberty. 




EiCHAUT) Lovelace. 


ISTo tears, Celia, now shall win 


■♦ 


My resolved heart to return ; 




I have searched thy soul within. 


TO LUOASTA. 


And find nought but pride and scorn; 




I have learned thy arts, and now 


If to be absent were to be 


Can disdain as much as thou. 


Away from thee ; 


Some power, in my revenge, convey 


Or that, -yhen I am gone. 


That love to her I cast away ! 


Tou or I were alone ; 


Thomas Caeew. 


Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 




Pity from blustering wind or swallowing 
wave. 

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 




TO ALTHKA— FROM PRISON. 


To sweU my sail. 




Or pay a tear to 'suage 


When Love, with unconfined wings, 


The foaming blue-god's rage ; 


Hovers within my gates, 


For, whether he will let me pass 


And my divine Althea brings 


Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. 


To whisper at my grates ; 




When I lie tangled in her hair 
And fettered to her eye — 


Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both. 
Our faith and troth. 


The birds that wanton in the air 


% Like separated souls. 


"Know no such liberty. 


All time and space controls : 


J 


Above the highest sphere we meet, 




Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. 


When flowing cups run swiftly round 




With no allaying Thames, 


So, then, we do anticipate 


Our careless heads with roses bound. 


Our after-fate. 


Our hearts with loyal flames ; 


And are alive 'i th' skies, 


When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 


If thus our lips and eyes 


When healths and draughts go free — 


Can speak like spirits unconfined 


Fishes, that tipple in the deep, 


In heaven — ^their earthly bodies left behind. 


Know no such liberty. 


ElCHAKD LOTELACS. 



SONGS. 255 


SUPERSTITION. 


A SONG-. 


I OAEE not, though it be 


To thy lover. 


By the preciser sort thought popery ; 


. Dear, discover 


. We poets can a license show 


That sweet blush of thine, that shameth 


For every thing we do. 


(When those roses 


Hear, then, my little saint ! I'll pray to thee. 


It discloses) 




All the flowers that Nature nameth. 


If now thy happy mind, 


In free air 


Amidst its various joys, can leisure find 


To attend to any thing so low 


Flow thy hair, 


As what I say or do. 


That no more Summer's best dresses 


Regard, and be what thou wast ever— Mnd. 


Be beholden 




For their golden 


Let not the blest above 


Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses. 


Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither 


deliver 


rove; 


Love his quiver . 


Fain would I thy sweet image see, 


From thy eyes he shoots his arrows. 


And sit and talk with thee ; 


Where Apollo 


Nor is it curiosity, but love. 


Cannot follow. 




Feathered with his mother's sparrows. 


Ah ! what delight 'twould be, 




Wouldst thou sometimes, by stealth, converse 


envy not 


with me ! 


(That we die not) 


How should I thy sweet commune prize. 


Those dear lips, whose door encloses 


And other joys despise ; 


AH the Graces 


Come, then, I ne'er was yet denied by thee. 


In their places, 




Brother pe^ls, and sister roses. 


I would not long detain 




Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in 


From these treasures 


pain; 


Of ripe pleasures 


Nor should thy feUow-saints e'er know 


One bright smile to clear the weather ; 


Of thy escape below ; 


Earth and Heaven 


Before thou 'rt missed, thou shouldst return 


Thus made even. 


again. 


Both will be good friends together. 


Sure heaven must needs thy love. 


The air does woo thee ; 


As well as other qualities, improve ; 


Winds cHng to thee ; 


Come, then, and recreate my sight 


Might a word once fly from out thee. 


With rays of thy pure light ; 


Storm and thunder 


'Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps 


Would sit under. 


above. 


And keep silence round about thee. 


But if Fate 's so severe 


But if Nature's 


As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere. 


Common creatures 


(And by thy absence I shall know 


So dear glories dare not borrow ; 


Whether thy state be so,) 


Yet t% beauty 


Live happy, and be mindful of me there. 


Owes a duty 


John Noekis. 


To my loving, lingering sorrow. 



256 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



When, to end me, 

Death shall send me 
All his terrors to affright me ; 

Thine eyes' graces 

Gild their faces. 
And those terrors shall delight me. 

When my dying 

Life is flying. 
Those sweet airs that often slew me, 

Shall revive me, 

Or reprieve me 
And to many deaths renew me. 

BlOHABD CbASEA'W. 



HOW SWEET IT IS TO LOYE. 

Ah, how sweet it is to love ! 

Ah, how gay is yonng Desire ! 

And what pleasing pains we prove 

When we first approach Love's fire ! 
Pains of love be sweeter far 
Than all other pleasures are. 

Sighs, which are from lovers blown, 
Do but gently heave the heart ; 
E'en the tears they shed alone. 
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 

Lovers, when they lose their breath, 

Bleed away in easy death. 

Love and Time with reverence use,* 
Treat them like a parting friend, 
Nor the golden gifts refuse 
Which in youth sincere they send ; 
For each year their price is more, 
And they less simple than before. 

Love, like Spring-tides, full and high, 
Swells in every youthful vein ; • 
But each tide does less supply, 
Till they quite shrink in again ; 

If a flow in age appedl', 

'T is but rain, and runs not clear. 

John Detden. 



SONG. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For, in your beauty's orient deep, 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past ; 
For in your sweet, dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Cabew. 



PHILOMELA'S ODE 

THAT SHE 8Tma IN HER AEBOE. 

Sitting by a river's side 
Where a silent stream did glide. 
Muse I did of many things 
That the mind in quiet brings. 
I 'gan think how some men deem 
Gold their god ; and some esteem 
Honor is the chief content 
That to man in life is lent; 
And some others do contend 
Quiet none like to a friend. 
Others hold there is no wealth 
Compared to a perfect health ; 
Some man's mind in quiet stands 
When he 's lord of many lands. 
But I did sigh, and said all this 
Was but a shade of perfect bliss ; 



SONGS. 



257 



And in my thongMs I did approve 
Nought so sweet as is true love. 
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these, 
"When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees — 
"With folded arms and lips meeting, 
Each soul another sweetly greeting ; 
For by the breath the soul fleeteth, 
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. 
If love be so sweet a thing, 
That such happy bliss doth bring, 
Happy is love's sugared thraU ; 
But unhappy maidens all 
Who esteem your virgin blisses 
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 
No such quiet to the mind 
As true love with kisses kiad ; 
But if a kiss prove unchaste, 
Then is true love quite disgraced. 
Though love be sweet, learn this of me, 
No sweet love but honesty. 

ROBEET GeEENE. 



COME AWAY, DEATH. 

Come away, come away, Death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ! 

Fly away, fly away, breath : 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

O, prepare it ; 
My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
On my black coffin let there be strown ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
thrown. 
A thousand, thousand sighs to save. 

Lay me, O ! where 
Sad true-love never flnd my grave, 
To weep there. 



THE TOMB. 

When, cruel fair one, I am slain 

By thy disdain, 
And, as a trophy of thy scorn. 
To some old tomb am borne, 
Thy fetters must their powers bequeath 
To those of Death; 
Nor can thy flame immortal burn. 
Like monumental fires within an urn : 
Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall 

prove 
There is more liberty in Death than Love. 

And when forsaken lovers come 

To see my tomb, 
Take heed thou mix not with the crowd, 

And, (as a victor) proud 
To view the spoils thy beauty made, 
Press near my shade ; 

Lest thy too cruel breath or name 
Should fan my ashes back into a flame, 
And thou, devoured by this revengeful fire. 
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire. 

But if cold earth, or marble, must 

Conceal my dust, 
Whilst, hid in some dark ruins, I 

Dumb and forgotten lie, 
The pride of aU thy victory 

WiU sleep with me ; 
And they who should attest thy glory, 
Will or forget or not beheve this story. 
Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, 
Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast. 
Thomas Stanley. 



17 



LOYE NOT ME. 

Love not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part. 
No, nor for my constant heart ; 
For those may fail or turn to ill. 
So thou and I shall sever ; 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
And love me still, but know not why. 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To doat upon me ever. 

Anontmotts. 



258 POEMS OF LOVE. 




A gown made of the finest wool. 


TFE EXEQUIES. 


"Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 




Fair-lined slippers for the cold. 


DuAw near 


"With buckles of the purest gold ; 


You lovers, that complain, 




Of fortune or disdain, 


A belt of straw, and ivy buds. 


And to my aslies lend a tear ! 


With coral clasps and amber studs ; 


Melt the hard marble with your groans, 


And if these pleasures may thee move. 


And soften the relentless stones, 


Come live with me, and be my love. 


Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide 
Of all Love's cruelties, and Beauty's pride ! 


The shepherd swains shall dance and sing. 
For thy delight each May morning : 


No verse. 


If these dehghts thy mind may move. 


No epicedium bring ; 


Then live with me, and be my love. 


Nor peaceful requiem sing, 


• Chbistophek Marlowe. 


To charm the terrors of my hearse ! 




No profane numbers must flow near 
The sacred silence that dwells here. 






Vast griefs are dumb ; softly, softly 


THE MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER. 


mourn ! 




Lest you disturb the peace attends my urn. 


THE nymph's EEPLT. 


Yet strew 


If that the world and love were young. 


Upon my dismal grave 


And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 


Such offerings as you have — 


These pretty pleasures might me move 


Forsaken cypress, and sad yew ; 


To live with thee and be thy love. 


For kinder flowers can take no birth 




Or growth from such unhappy earth. 


But time drives flocks from fleld to fold, 


"Weep only o'er my dust, and say, " Here lies 


When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 


To Love and Fate an equal sacrifice." 


And Philomel becometh dumb, 


Thomas Stanley. 


And all complain of cares to come. 
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 


• 




To wayward Winter reckoning yields ; 


THE Mn-K-MATD'S SONG. 


. A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 




Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall. 


THE SHEPHEED TO HIS LOVE. 






Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 


Come live with me, and be my love, 


Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 


And we will all the pleasures prove 


Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten — ' 


That valleys, groves, hills, and fields. 


In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 


"Woods or steepy mountains yields. 






Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 


There will we sit upon the rocks. 


Thy coral clasps and amber studs — 


Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 


All these in me no means can move 


By shallow rivers to whose falls 


To come to thee, and be thy love. 


Melodious birds sing madrigals. 




• 


But could youth last, and love still breed. 


There will I make thee beds of roses 


Had joys no date, nor age no need, 


"With a thousand fragrant posies ; 


Then those delights my mind might move 


A cap of flowers, and a kirtle. 


To live with thee, and be thy love. 


Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 


SiE Walter Raleigh. 



SONGS. 



259 



TO THALIAEOHUS. 

Behold yon mountain's hoary height, 
Made higher with new mounts of snow ; 

Again behold the winter's weight 
Oppress the laboring woods below ; 

And streams with icy fetters bound, 

Benumbed and cramped to solid ground. 

With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold. 
And feed the genial hearth with fires ; 

Produce the wine that makes us bold. 
And sprightly wit of love inspires. 

For what hereafter shall betide, 

Jove, if 't is worth his care, provide ! 

Let him alone, with what he made, 
To toss and turn the world below ; 

At his command the storms invade ; 
The winds by his commission blow ; 

Till with a nod he bids them cease, 

And then the calm returns, and all is peace. 

To-morrow and her works defy — 
Lay hold upon the present hour. 

And snatch the pleasures passing by, 
To put them out of Fortune's power. 

Nor Love, nor Love's delights, disdain ; 

"Whate'er thou gett'st to-day is gain. 



Secure those golden, early joys. 
That youth, unsoured by sorrow, bears, 

Ere withering Time the taste destroys 
"With sickness and unwieldy years. 

For active sports, for pleasing rest. 

This is the time to be possest ; 

The best is but in season best. 



Th' appointed hour of promised bliss. 
The pleasing whisper in the dark. 

The half-unwilling, willing kiss. 
The laugh that guides thee to the mark 

When the kind nymph would coyness feign, 

And hides but to be found again : 

These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain. 

HoBACE. (Latin.) 
Translation of John Deyden. 



WELCOME, WELCOME. 

Welcome^ welcome^ do I sing^ 
Far more welcome than tJie Spring ; 
He that parteth from you never ^ 
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever. 

LovE that to the voice is near, 

Breaking from your ivory pale, 
Need not walk abroad to hear 
The delightful nightingale. 
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 
Far more welcome than the Spring ; 
He that parteth from you never ^ 
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever. 

Love, that still looks on your eyes, 
Though the Winter have begun 
To benumb our arteries, 

Shall not want the Summer's sun. 
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 
Far more welcome than the Spring ; 
He that part ethj from you never. 
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks. 

Where all rareness still reposes. 
Is a fool if e'er he seeks 
Other lilies, other roses. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 
Far more welcome than the Spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever. 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 

And perceives your breath in kissing, 
All the odors of the fields 

Never, never shall be missing. 
Welcome, loelcome, then I sing. 
Far more welcome than the Spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever. 

Love, that question would anew 

What fair Eden was of old. 
Let him rightly study you. 
And a brief of that behold. 
Welcome, loelcome, then I sing, 
Far more welcome than the Spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever. 

William Bbownb. 



260 POEMS OF LOVE. 




Thoughts filled my mind. 


BLEST AS THE IMMOKTAL GODS. 


Whilst I through Kaige passed 
Swift as the wind. 




And my desire 


Blest as the imTnortal gods is he, 


Winged with impatient fire; 


The youth who fondly sits by thee, 


My reindeer, let us haste ! 


And hears and sees thee all the while 




Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 


So shall we quickly end our pleasing pain — 




Behold my mistress there, 


'T was this deprived my soul of rest, 


With decent motion walking o'er the plain. 


And raised such tumults in my breast ; 


Kulnasatz, my reindeer, 


For while I gazed, in transport tost, 


Look yonder where 


My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 


She washes in the lake I 




See, while she swims, 


My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
Ban quick through all my vital frame ; 


The water from her purer limbs 
New clearness take ! 

ANOimiOTJB. 


O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 






In dewy damps my limbs were chilled; 


LIOTES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 


My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; 




My feeble pulse forgot to play — 


I AEiSE from dreams of thee 


I fainted, sunk, and died away. 


In the first sweet sleep of night. 


Sappho. (Greek.) 


When the winds are breathing low, 


Translation of Ambeose Phixltps. 


And the stars are shining bright. 




I arise from dreams of thee, 




And a spirit in my feet 


« 


Has led me — who knows how ? 




To thy chamber window, sweet ! 


KULNASATZ, MY KEIKDEEB. 


The wandering airs, they faint 




On the dark and silent stream — 


A LAFLAOT) SONG. 


The champak odors fail 




Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 


Ktjlnasatz, my reindeer, 


The nightingale's complaint. 


"We have a long journey to go ; 


It dies upon her heart. 


The moors are vast, 


As I must on thine. 


And we must haste. 


Beloved as thou art ! 


Our strength, I fear. 




Will fail, if we are slow ; 


Oh, lift me from the grass ! 


And so 


Idle, I faint, I fail! 


Our songs will do. 


Let thy love in kisses rain 




On my lips and eyelids pale. 


KaigS, the watery moor. 


My cheek is cold and white, a,la.s I 


Is pleasant unto me. 


My heart beats loud and fast; 


Though long it be, 
Since it doth to my mistress lead, 


! press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 


Whom I adore ; 


Peeoy Bysshb Shellbt. 


The Kilwa moor 
I ne'er again will tread. 




* 



SONGS. 



261 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

ZwT/ fiov, ads dyaTTO). 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, O, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Za}T} [lov, (rds dyairm. 

By those tresses unconfined. 
Wooed by each ^gean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Za>ri [xov^ ads dyanSi. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zqpe-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zoar) [xov^ ads dyaira). 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone 
Think of me, sweet, when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul. 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zd)Tj /ioi), ads dyanS), 

LoED Byeon. 



SONNET. 

The might of one fair face sublunes my love. 
For it hath weaned my heart from low de- 
sires ; 
Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. 
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above. 
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve ; 
For O ! how good, how beautiful, must be 
The God that made so good a thing as thee. 
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove. 
Forgive me if I cannot turn away 
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly 

heaven, 
For they are guiding stars, benignly given 



To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 

And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 

I live and love in God's peculiar light. 

Michael Anuelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of Haetlby Ooleeidgb. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix for ever, 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine ? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; — 
What are all these kissings worth. 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Peecy Bysshb Shelley. 



TO 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men caU love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not : 
The desire of the moth for the star. 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Peeoy Bysshb Shelley. 



262 



POEMS OF LOYE. 



THE GIRL OF CADIZ. 



Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
It has not heen your lot to see 

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 



Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roU, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
Ajid as along her bosom steal 

In lengthened flow her raven tresses. 
You 'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curled to give her neck caresses. 

in. 
Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession ; 
But, born beneath a brighter sun. 

For love ordained the Spanish maid is, 
And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ? 

rv. 
The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'T will love you long, and love you dearly. 



The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial ; 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain 

She dares the deed and shares the danger : 
A.nd should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 



VI. 

And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero ; 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero ; 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper ; 
Or joins devotion's choral band 

To chant the sweet and hallowed vesper : 

VII. 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her. 
Then let not maids less fair reprove. 

Because her bosom is not colder ; 
Through many a clime 't is mine to roam ' 

"Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 

LoED Bteon. 



SONG. 



The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And aU it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
"When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe. 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught ! 
For, if I fall in battle fought. 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary ! 
And if returned from conquered foes. 
How blithely will the evening close. 
How sweet the linnet sing repose 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sib Walter Scott. 



SONGS. 



•26:. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Theee be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
"When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the luUed winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep, 

Whose breast is gently heaving. 
As an infant's asleep ; 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee. 

"With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 

LoED Bykon. 



ROBIN ADAIR. 

"Welcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair ! 
Welcome once more again, 

Robin Adair ! 
I feel thy trembling hand ; 
Tears in thy eyelids stand, 
To greet thy native land, 

Robin Adair ! 

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 

Robin Adair ! 
Still I prayed for thee, love, 

Robin Adair ! 
When thou wert far at sea 
Many made love to me, 
But still I thought on thee, 

Robin Adair ! 

Gome to my heart again, 

Robin Adair ! 
Never to part again, 

Robin Adair ! 
And if thou still art true, 
I will be constant too. 
And will wed none but you, 

Robin Adah' ! 



Anonymous, 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE I LO'E 
DEAR. 

Here's a TiealtTi to ane I We dea/r^ 

Here's a Tiealth to ane I We dear ; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lours 

meet, 
And soft as the parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied, 
'T is sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I niuse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am locked in thy arms — Jessy! 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 
I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — ^Jessy I 
Her is a health to ane I We dear^ 
Heris a health to ane I We dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 

meet^ 
And soft as thejpa/rting tear — Jessy ! 

EOBBET BtJENS. 



OA' THE TOWES TO THE KNOWES. 

Ga^ the yowes to the Icnowes, 
Co) them where the heather grows, 
Ca'' them where the hurnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Haek the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Olouden's woods amang; 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We '11 gae down by Olouden side. 

Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 

O'er the waves that sweetly glide 

To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Olouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine, midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 



264 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 

"While waters wimple to the sea, 
"While day blinks in the lift sae hie. 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee, 
Ye shall be my dearie. 

Co) the yowes to the Tcnowes^ 
Co) tTiem where the heather grows^ 
Co' them where the lurnie rows, 
My lonnie dearie. 



MEERY MAY THE KEEL EOWE. 

As I came down through Oannobie, 
Through Cannobie, through Oannobie, 
The summer sun had shut his ee, 

And loud a lass did sing-o : 
Ye westlin winds, all gently blow ; 
Ye seas, soft as my wishes flow ; 
And merry may the shallop rowe 

That my true love sails in-o ! 

My love hath breath like roses sweet, 
Like roses sweet, like roses sweet. 
And arms like lilies dipt in weet, 

To fold a maiden in-o. 
There 's not a wave that swells the sea 
But bears a prayer and wish frae me ; — 
soon may I my true-love see, 

Wi' his bauld bands again-o ! 

My lover wears a bonnet blue, 
A bonnet blue, a bonnet blue — 
A rose so white, a heart so true 

A dimple on his chin-o. 
He bears a blade his foes have felt, 
And nobles at his nod have knelt ; 
My heart will break as well as melt, 

Should he ne'er come again-o. 

Anontmoits. 



EAPwEWELL TO NANOY. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever I 
Ae farewe*el, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I '11 ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my ITancy : 
But to see her was to love her. 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart- wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. 

EOBEET BtTENS. 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIOT) CAN 
BLAW. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west ; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'e best. 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And monie a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair ; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There 's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green — 
There 's not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

EOBEET BtTENS. 



SONGS. 



265 



THE LASS OF BALLOOHMYLE. 

'T WAS even — the dewy fields we're green, 

On every blade the pearls did hang ; 
The zephyr wantoned round the bean 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while. 
Except where green-wood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed ; 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy ; 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy. 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile ; 
Perfection whispered, passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild, 
When roving thro' the garden gay. 

Or wandering in a lonely wild ; 
But Woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Ev'n there her other works are foiled 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

With joy, with rapture, I would toU ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep 

Where fame and honors lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine. 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks or tiU the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

EOBEET BtIENS. 



A BED, EED KOSE. 

O, MY luve 's like a red, red rose. 
That 's newly sprung in June ; 

O, my luve 's like the melodic 
That 's sweetly played in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

TiU a' the seas gang dry — 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 

I wUl luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands of life shaU run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I wiU come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

EOBEET BtJENS, 



ANNIE LAURIE. 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
Where early fa's the dew, 
And it 's there* that Annie Laurie 
Gie'd me her promise true ; 
Gie'd me her promise true. 
Which ne'er forgot wiU be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I 'd lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw drift ; 
Her throat is like the swan ; 
Her face it is the fairest 
That e'er the sun shone on — 
That e'er the sun shone on — 
And dark blue is her ee ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 

And like the winds in summer sighing, 

Her voice is low and sweet — 



266 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Her voice is low and sweet — 
And she's a' tlie world to me ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 



Anonymous. 



THOU HAST YOWED BY THY FAITH, 
MY JEAOTE. 

Thotj hast vowed hy thy faith, my Jeanie, 

By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
And by all the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thou wad aye be mine ! 
And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, 

And by that kind heart o' thine. 
By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven, 

That thou shalt aye be mine ! 

Then foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands, 

And the heart wad part sic love ; 
But there 's nae hand can loose the band, 

But the finger of Him above. 
Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, 

An' my clothing e'er so mean, 
I should lap up rich in the faulds of love, 

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 

Her white arm wad be a pillow to me, 

Far softer than the down ; 
And Love wad winnow o'er us, his kind, kind 
wings. 

And sweetly we'd sleep, an' soun'. 
Come here to me, thou lass whom I love. 

Come here and kneel wi' me ; 
The morn is full of the presence of God, 

And I canna pray but thee. 

The morn-wind is sweet amang the new 
flowers : 
The wee birds sing saft on the tree. 
Our gudeman sits in the bonnie sunshine 

And a blithe auld bodie is he. 
The Beuk maun be ta'en whan he comes 
hame, 
Wi' the holy psalmodie ; 
And I will speak of thee whan I pray, 
And thou maun speak of me. 

Allan CtTNNiNGnAii. 



THE FLOWER 0' DUMBLANE. 

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlo- 
mond. 
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the 
scene. 
While lanely I stray in the calm summer 
gloamin'. 
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' 
Dumblane. 

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' 
blossom, 
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' 
green ; 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this 
bosom. 
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dum- 
blane. 

She 's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's 
bonnie — 
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha 'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower 
o' Dumblane. 

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the 
e'ening — 
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calder- 
wood glen ; 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning. 
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' 
Dumblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my 
Jessie ! 
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and 
vain; 
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear 
lassie 
TiU charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower 
o' Dumblane. 

Though mine were the station o' loftiest 
grandeur, 
Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain, 
And reckon as naething the height o' its 
splendor, 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' 
Dumblane. 

EOBEET TaNNAHILL. 



SONGS. 



267 



GENTLE HUGH HEREIES. 

Go seek in the wild glen 

Where streamlets are falling I 
Go seek on the lone hiU 

Where curlews are calling! 
Go seek when the clear stars 

Shine down without number, 
For there shall ye find him, 

My true love, in slumber. 

They sought in the wild glen — 

The glen was forsaken ; 
They sought on the mountain, 

' Mang lang lady-bracken ; 
And sore, sore they hunted, 

My true love to find him. 
With the strong bands of iron 

To fetter and bind him. 

Yon green hill I '11 give thee, 

Where the falcon is flying, 
To show me the den where 

This bold traitor 's lying ; 

make me of Mthsdale's 
Fair princedom the heiress — 

Is that worth one smile of 
My gentle Hugh Herries ? 

The white bread, the sweet milk. 
And ripe fruits, I found him. 

And safe in my fond arms 
I clasped and I wound him ; 

1 warn you go not where 
My true lover tarries. 

For sharp smites the sword of 
My gentle Hugh Herries. 

They reined their proud war-steeds — 

Away they went sweeping ; 
And behind them dames wailed, and 

Fair maidens went weeping ; 
But deep in yon wild glen, 

'Mang banks of blae-berries, 
I dwell with my loved one, 

My gentle Hugh Herries. 

Allan Cunningham. 



O, SAW YE THE LASS. 

O, SAW ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een? 
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen ; 
Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween ; 
She 's the loveliest lassie that trips on the 

green. 
The home of my love is below in the valley. 
Where wild flowers welcome the wandering 

bee; 
But the sweetest of flow'rs in that spot that 

is seen 
Is the dear one I love wi' the bonny blue een. 

When night overshadows her cot in the glen, 
She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald 

again ; 
And when the moon shines on yon valley so 

green, 
I '11 welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 
As the dove that has wandered away from 

his nest, 
Eeturns to his mate his fond heart loves the 

best, 
I '11 fly from the world's false and vanishing 

scene. 

To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue 

een. 

Anonxmous. 



MY l!TAl^NIE-0. 

Red rowes the ISTith 'tween bank and brae ; 

Mirk is the night and rainie-O' — 
Though heaven and earth should mix in 
storm, 

I '11 gang and see my N"annie-o ; 
My Nannie-o, my Nannie-o, 

My kind and winsome Kannie-o, 
She holds my heart in love's dear bands. 

And nane can do 't but Nannie- o. 

In preaching time sae meek she stands, 

Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o, 
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace 

For thieving looks at Nannie-o ; 
My Nannie-o, my Nannie-o ; 

The world 's in love with Nannie-o ; 
That heart is hardly worth the wear 

That wadna love my Nannie-o. 



268 



POEMS OF LOVE, 



My breast can scarce contain my heart, 

When dancing she moves finely-o ; 
I guess what heaven is by her eyes, 

They sparkle sae divinely-o; 
My Nannie-o, my Nannie-o ; 

The flower of Nithsdale's Nannie-o ! 
Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, 

And says, I dwell with Nannie-o. 

Tell not, thou star, at gray daylight. 

O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o. 
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew 

When coming frae my Nannie-o ; 
My JiTannie-o, my Nannie-o ; 

Nane ken o' me and Nannie-o ; 
The stars and moon may tell ' t aboon — 

They winna wrang my Nannie-o ! 

Allan CinmiKGHAM. 



BONNIE LESLIE. 

O SAW ye bonnie Leslie 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She 's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For Nature made her what she is. 

And ne'er made sic anither. 

Thou art a queen, fair Leslie — 
Thy subjects we, before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Leslie — 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He 'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say, "I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That iU they '11 ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Leslie ! 

Return to Caledonia ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There 's nane again sae bonnie. 

EOBEKT BUENS. 



FAIR DTES. 



O SAW ye not fair Ines ? 
She 's gone into the west. 
To dazzle when the sun is down, 
And rob the world of rest ; 
She took our daylight with her, 
The smiles that we love best, 
With mornmg blushes on her cheek, 
And pearls upon her breast. 

n. 

turn again, fair Ines, 
Before the fall of night, 

For fear the moon should shine alone, 

And stars unrivalled bright ; 

And blessed wiU the lover be 

That walks beneath their light. 

And breathes the love against thy cheek 

1 dare not even write ! 



in. 

Would I had been, fair Ines, 

That gallant cavalier 

Who rode so gayly by thy side, 

And whispered thee so near ! — 

Were there no bonny dames at home, 

Or no true lovers here, 

That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dear ? 



IV. 

I saw thee, lovely Ines, 

Descend along the shore. 

With bands of noble gentlemen. 

And banners waved before ; 

And gentle youth and maidens gay, 

And snowy plumes they wore ; — 

It would have been a beauteous dream, 

— If it had been no more ! 



Alas ! alas ! fair Ines ! 
She went away with song. 
With music waiting on her steps. 
And shoutings of the throng ; 



SONGS. 269 


But some were sad, and felt no mirth, 


And, at night, when gazing 


But only Music's wrong. 


On the gay hearth blazing, 


In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell 


0, still remember me ! 


To her you 've loved so long. 


Then should music, stealing 




All the soul of feeling. 


VI. 


To thy heart appealing. 


Farewell, farewell, fair Ines ! 


Draw one tear from thee — 


That vessel never bore 


Then let memory bring thee , 


So fair a lady on its deck, 


Strains I used to sing thee ; 


For danced so light before — 


then remember me ! 


Alas for pleasure on the sea. 


Thomas Moobe. 


And sorrow on the shore ! 

The smile that blest one lover's heart 






Has broken many more ! 




Thomas Hood. 


FLY TO TH H: DESERT. 

Fly to the desert, fly with me — 


• 




Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 


GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE! 


But, 1 the choice what heart can doubt. 




Of tents with love, or thrones without ? 


Go where glory waits thee ; 




But, while Fame elates thee, 


Our rocks are rough ; but smiling there 


still remember me ! 


Th' acacia waves her yellow hair — 


When the praise thou meetest 


Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 


To thine ear is sweetest, 


For flowering in a wilderness. 


then remember me ! 




Other arms may press thee, 


Our sands are bare ; but down their slope 


Dearer friends caress thee — 


The silvery-footed antelope 


All the joys that bless thee 


As gracefully and gayly springs 


Sweeter far may be ; 


As o'er the marble courts of kings. 


But when friends are nearest, 




And when joys are dearest. 


Then come — thy Arab maid will be 


then remember me ! 


The loved and lone acacia-tree — 


When, at eve, thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest. 


The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loveliness. 


then remember me ! 




Think when home returning. 


! there are looks and tones that dart 


Bright we 've seen it burning. 


An instant sunshine through the heart, — 


0, thus remember me ! 


As if the soul that minute caught 


Oft as summer closes. 


Some treasure it through life had sought ; 


When thine eye reposes 




On its liugering roses. 


As if the very lips and eyes 


Once so loved by thee. 


Predestined to have all our sighs, 


Think of her who wove them, 


And never be forgot again. 


Her who made thee love them ; 


Sparkled and spoke before us then ! 


then remember me ! 






So came thy every glance and tone, 


When, around thee dying. 


When first on me they breathed and shone ; 


Autumn, leaves are lying, 


New as if brought from other spheres, 


then remember me I 


Yet welcome as if loved for years. 



210 



POEMS OF LOVE, 



Then fly with me, — ^if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn ; 

Come, if the love thou hast for me, 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee — 
Fresh as the fountain under ground. 
When first 't is by the lapwing found. 

But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid, and rudely break 
Her worshipped image from its base, 
To give to me the ruined place — 

Then, fare thee well ; I 'd rather make 
My bowser upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine. 
Than trust to love so false as thine ! 

Thomas Mooee. 



LOVELY MARY DOFKELLY. 

0, LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it 's you I love the 

best! 
If fifty girls were around you, I 'd hardly see 

the rest ; 
Be what it may the time of day, the place be 

where it will, 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom 

before me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing 

on a rock. 
How clear they are, how dark they are! 

and they give me many a shock ; 
Red row^ans warm in sunshine, and wetted 

with a shower. 
Could ne'er express the charming lip that 

has me in its pow'r. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eye- 
brows lifted up, 

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth 
like a china cup ; 

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty 
and so fine — 

It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gath 
ered in a twine. 



The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceed 

ed aU before — 
No pretty girl for miles around was missing 

from the floor ; 
But Mary kept the belt of love, and ! but 

she was gay ; 
She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took 

my heart away ! 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps 

were so complete. 
The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her 

feet; 
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard 

her so much praised ; 
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when 

once her voice she raised. 

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what 

you sung ; 
Your smile is always in my heart, your name 

beside my tongue. 
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd 

count on both your hands, 
And for myself there 's not a thumb or little 

finger stands. 

0, you 're the flower of womankind, in country 

or in town ; 
The higher I exalt you the lower I'm cast down. 
If some great Lord should come this way and 

see your beauty bright, 
And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but 

right. 

0, might we live together in lofty palace 

haU 
, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet 

curtains fall ! 
O, might we live together in a cottage mean 

and small. 
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud 

the only wall ! 

0, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my 

distress — 
It 's far too beauteous to be mine, but I '11 

never wish it less ; 
The proudest place would fit your face, and 

I am poor and low, 

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever 

you may go ! 

"William Allingham. 



SONGS. 



271 



AN IRISH MELODY, 

"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil! rise up from your 
wheel — 
Your neat little foot will be weary from 
spinning ; 
Come, trip down with me to the sycamore 
tree; 
Half the parish is there, and the dance is 
beginning. 
The sun is gone down ; but the full harvest 
moon 
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whit- 
ened valley ; 
"WhUe all the air rings with the soft, loviog 
things 
Each little bird sings in the green shaded 
aUey." 

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the 
while. 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her 
hair, glancing ; 
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover 
sues, 
So she could n't but choose to — go off to 
the dancing. 
And now on the green the glad groups are 
seen — 
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his 
choosing ; 
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty 
Neil— 
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought 
of refusing. 

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his 
knee. 
And, with flourish so free, sets each couple 
in motion ; 
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter 
the ground — 
The maids move around just like swans on 
the ocean. 
Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the 
doe's — 
Now cozily retiring, now boldly advanc- 
ing; 



Search the world all round from the sky to 
the ground. 
No such sight can be found as an Irish 
lass dancing ! 

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright 
eyes of deep blue. 
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes 
so mildly — 
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, round- 
ed form — 
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses 
throb wildly ? 
Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, de- 
part, 
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet 
sweet love ; 
The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a 
sigh, 
" Dance Ught^ for my Jieart it lies under 
yourfeet^ lovef'' 

Denis Ploeence M'Caethy. 



WEEE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE. 

Weee I but his own wife, to guard and to 
guide him, 
'Tis little of sorrow should faU on my 
dear; 
I 'd chant my low love verses, stealing beside 
him. 
So faint and so tender his heart would but 
hear; 
I 'd puU the wild blossoms from valley and 
highland ; 
And there at his feet I would lay them all 
down ; 
I 'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken 
island, 
Till his heart was on fire with a love like 
my own. 

There 's a rose by his dwelling — I 'd tend the 

lone treasure. 
That he might have flowers when the 

summer would come ; 
There 's a harp in his haU — I would wake its 

sweet measure, 



2*72 POEMS OF LOVE. 


For lie must have music to brighten his 




home. 


THE WELCOME. 


Were I but his own wife, to guide and to 




guard him, 


I. 


'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my 


Come in the evening, or come in the morning- 


dear; 


Come when you 're looked for, or come with- 


For every kind glance my whole life would 


out warning; 


award him — 


Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before 


In sickness I'd soothe and in sadness I'd 


you. 


cheer. 


And the oftener you come here the more I '11 




adore you ! 


My heart is a fount welling upward for 


Light is my heart since the day we were 


ever — 


plighted ; 


When I think of my true love, by night 


Eed is my cheek that they told me was 


or by day, 


blighted ; 


That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing 


The green of the trees looks far greener 


river 


than ever, 


Which gushes for ever and sings on its 


And the linnets are singing, "true lovers 


way. 


don't sever ! " 


I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to 


n. 


repose in, 
Were I but his own wife, to win and to 


I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you 


woo — 


■ choose them ! 


0, sweet, if the night of misfortune were 


Or, after you 've kissed them, they '11 lie on 


closing, 


my bosom; 


07 
To rise like the morning star, darling, for 


I '11 fetch from the mountain its breeze to in- 


you! 

Mast Downing. 


spire you ; 


I 'U fetch from my fancy a tale that won't 




tire you. 
! your step 's like the rain to the summer- 


* 




vexed farmer, 


SONG. 


Or sabre and shield to a knight without 




armor ; 


Love me if I live! 


I '11 sing you sweet songs till the stars rise 


Love me if I die ! 


above me, 


What to me is life or death, 


Then, wandering, I '11 wish you, in silence. 


So that thou be nigh ? 


to love me. 


Once I loved thee rich, 


m. 
We '11 look through the trees at the cliff and 


Now I love thee poor ; 


the eyrie ; 
We '11 tread round the rath on the track of 


Ah ! what is there I could not 


For thy sake endure ? 


the fairy ; 




We '11 look on the stars, and we '11 Hst to the 


Kiss me for my love ! 


river. 


Pay me for my pain ! 


Till you ask of your darling what gift you 


Come ! and murmur in my ear 


can give hei* — 


How thou lov'st again I 


0! she'll whisper you— "Love, as un- 


BAEEY Ck)ENWAlX. 


changeably beaming. 




And trust, when in secret, most tunefully 
streammg; 





SONGS. 



273 



Till the starlight of heaven above us shall 

quiver, 
As onr souls flow in one down Eternity's 

river. 

IV. 

So come in the evening, or come in the morn- 
ing; 

Come when you 're looked for, or come with- 
out warning ; 

Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before 

you, 

And the oft'ner you come here the more 

I'll adore you! 
Light is my heart since the day we were 

plighted ; 
Eed is my cheek that they told me was 

blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener 

than ever. 

And the linnets are singing, " True lovers ! 

do n't sever ! " 

Thomas Davis. 



NOW SLEEPS THE OKIMSOK PETAL. 

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the 

white ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold-fin in the porphyry 

font; 
The fire-fly wakens ; waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a 

ghost. 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the 
stars. 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 



Now slides the silent meteor on, and 
leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 
18 



Now folds the lily all her sweetness up. 
And slips into the bosom of the lake ; 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Lito my bosom and be lost in me. 

AUPEED TeNNTSON. 



THE SHEPHERD'S IDYL. 

Come down, O maid, from yonder moun- 
tain height 1 
What pleasure lives in height, (the shepherd 

sang,) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills ? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and 

cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come ! for Love is of the valley ; come, 
For Love is of the valley — come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the Silver Horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in fcirrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors. 
But foUow ! let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild, 
Lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air ; 
So waste not thou; but come! for all the 

vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I, 
Thy shepherd, pipe; and sweet is every sound. 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet : 
Myriads of riv'lets hurrying through the 

lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms. 
And murmuring of innumerable bees. 

Alfeed Tenntson. 



2*74 



POEMS OF LOVE, 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 

Come into the garden, Maud — 
For the black bat. night, has flown ! 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune — 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

"With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 
For one that will never be thine ! 

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
"For ever and ever, mine !" 



And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood, 
As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet faU 
From the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood — 
Our wood, that is dearer than all — 



From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs, 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes — 
To the woody hollows in which we meet, 

And the valleys of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 

But the rose was awake all night for your 



Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake — 
They sighed for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither ! the dances are done ; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has faUen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ! 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is 
near ; " 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; " 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear; " 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead — 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfeed Ten-ntson, 



SONGS. 275 




In Summer, when the days are long. 


SUMMER DAYS. 


I love her as we loved of old ; 




My heart is light, my step is strong; 


In SuTTiTTier, when tlie days were long, 


For love brings back those hours of gold. 


"We walked together in the wood : 


In Summer, when the days are long. 


Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 


Anonymous. 


Sweet flutterings were there in our blood. 
In Summer, when the days were long. 






We strayed from morn tiU evening came ; 


RUTH. 


We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
We walked mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 


She stood breast high amid the corn 
Clasped by the golden hght of morn, 
Tiike the sweetheart of the sun, 


And always wished our life the same. 


Who many a glowing kiss had won. 


In Summer, when the days were long, 


On her cheek an autumn flush 


We leaped the hedgerow, crossed the brook; 


Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 


And stiU her voice flowed forth in song, 


In the midst of brown was born. 


Or else she read some graceful book. 


Like red poppies grown with corn. 


In Summer, when the days were long. 






Round her eyes her tresses fell — 


And then we sat beneath the trees. 


Which were blackest none could tell ; 


With shadows lessening in the noon ; 


But long lashes veiled a light 


And, in the sunlight and the breeze, 


That had else been aU too bright. 


We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 




While larks were singing o'er the leas. 


And her hat, with shady brim. 




Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 


In Summer, when the days were long. 


Thus she stood amid the stocks. 


On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. 


Praising God with sweetest looks. 


We feasted, with no grace but song. 




We plucked wild strawb'ries, ripe and red. 


Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 


In Summer, when the days were long. 


Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 




Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 


We loved, and yet we knew it not — 


Share my harvest and my home. 


For loving seemed like breathing then ; 


Thomas Hood. 


We found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 




* 


And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 






AT THE CHURCH GATE. 


In Summer, when the days are long. 




Alone I wander, muse alone ; 


Although I enter not, 


I see her not ; but that old song 


Yet round about the spot 


Under the fragrant wind is blown, 


Ofttimes I hover ; 


In Summer, when the days are long. 


And near the sacred gate. 




With longing eyes I wait. 


Alone I wander in the wood ; 


Expectant of her. 


But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 




And half I see, so glad and good, 


The minster beU toUs out 


The honest daylight of her eyes. 


Above the city's rout. 


That charmed me under earlier skies. 


And noise and humming ; 



216 POEMS OF LOVE. 


They 've hushed the minster bell : 




The organ 'gins to swell ; 


SERENADE. j 


She 's coming, she 's coming ! 


1 


My lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast. 


I. 

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 
I wake and passionate watches keep ; 


And hastening hither, 


And yet, while I address thee now. 


"With modest eyes downcast ; 


Methiuks thou smilest in thy sleep. 


She comes — she 's here, she 's past ! 


'T is sweet enough to make me weep, 


May Heaven go with her ! 


That tender thought of love and thee. 




That while the world is hushed so deep. 


Kneel nndisturbed, fair saint ! 


IT} 

Thy soul 's perhaps awake to me ! 


Pour out your praise or plaint 




Meekly and duly ; 


n. 


I will not enter there. 




To sully your pure prayer 
With thoughts unruly. 


Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep ! 

With golden visions for thy dower. 
While I this midnight vigil keep, 




And bless thee in thy silent bower ; 


But suffer me to pace 


To me 't is sweeter than the power 


Eound the forbidden place. 


Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled. 


Lingering a minute, 


That I alone, at this still hour, 


Like outcast spirits, who wait, 


In patient love outwatch the world. 


And see, through Heaven's gate, 


Thomas Hood. 


Angels within it. 


• 


WnjjATSf Mattrpeact! Thaokeeat. 


* 


SERENADE. 




SHE IS A MATD OF AKTT-ESS GEAOE. 


Look out upon the stars, my love, 




And shame them with thine eyes, 


She is a maid of artless grace, 


On which, than on the lights above, 


Gentle in form, and fair of face. 


There hang more destinies. 




Night's beauty is the harmony 


Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 


Of blending shades and light ; 


That sailest on the sea. 


Then, lady, up, — ^look out, and be 


If ship, or sail, or evening star, 


A sister to the night ! — 


Be half so fair as she ! 






Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye 


Tell me, thou gallant cavalier. 


Within my watching breast ; 


THiose shining arms I see. 


Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly. 


If steed, or sword, or battle-field, 


Who robs all hearts of rest. 


Be half so fan- as she ! 


Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break. 




And make this darkness gay, 


Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy 


With looks whose brightness well might 


flock 


make 


Beneath the shadowy tree. 


Of darker nights a day. 


If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge. 


Edwaed Coatbs Pinknbt. 


Be half so fair as she ! 




Gil Vicente. (Portuguese.) 


— *— 


Translation of Henet W. Longfellow. 





SONGS. 



2'7'7 



MY LOYE. 



I. 



Not as all other women are 
Is slie that to mj soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far, 
Beneath the silver evening-star ; 
And yet her heart is ever near. 

n. 

Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 
God giveth them to her alone, 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

in. 
Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
Although no home were half so fair ; 
No simplest duty is forgot ; 
Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

IV. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise ; 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

V. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 
And, though she seem of other birth, 
Eound us her heart entwines and clings, 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 

VI. 

Blessing she is ; God made her so ; 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 



She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 



vin. 

She is a woman — one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 



IX. 

I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might, 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 
Goes wandering at its own will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 



And, on its full, deep breast serene, 
Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 
It flows around them and between, 
And makes them fresh and fair and green- 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James Ettssbll Lowell. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

It is the miller's daughter. 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear ; 
For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty, dainty waist. 

And her heart would beat against me 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace. 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom 
With her laughter or her sighs ; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 

Alpekd Tennysok. 



278 



POEMS OF LOYE. 



THE BROOK-SIDE. 

I WA^^)EEED by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill ; 

I could not hear the brook flow — 

The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird. 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade, 

And, as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 

For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word — 

But the beating of my own heart 

"Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not, — ^no, he came not — 
The night came on alone — 
The little stars sat one by one. 
Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening wind passed by my cheek, 
The leaves above were stirred — 
But the beating of my own heart 
"Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 
"When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder — 
I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer — ^nearer, — 
"We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 
"Was all the sound we heard. 

ElOHAED MONCKTON MiLNES. 



0! TELL ME, LOVE, THE DEAREST 
HOUR. 

O ! TELL me, love, the dearest hour 
The parted, anxious lover knows, — 

"When passion, with enchanter's power, 
Across his faithful memory throws 
Its softest, brightest flame. 



'T is when he sings on some lone shore 

"Where Echo's vocal spirits throng, 
"Whose airy voices, o'er and o'er, 
On still and moonlight lake prolong 

One dear, loved, thrilling name. 
Anonymous. 



Let other bards of angels sing. 

Bright suns without a spot ; 
But thou art no such perfect thing : 

Rejoice that thou art not ! 

Heed not though none should call thee fair ,- 

So, Mary, let it be, 
K naught in loveliness compare 
With what thou art to me. 

True beauty dwells in deep retreats. 

Whose veil is unremoved 
Till heart with heart in concord beats, 

And the lover is beloved. 

William "Woedswoeth. 



BALLAD. 



It was not in the winter 
Our loving lot was cast ; 

It was the time of roses, — 
We plucked them as we 



That churlish season never frowned 

On early lovers yet ! 
0, no — the world was newly crowned 

With flowers when flrst we met. 

m. 
'T was twilight, and I bade you go — 

But still you held me fast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 
We plucked them as we passed ! 

Thomas Hood. 



SONGS. 279 


TH h: POKTEAIT. 


A HKALTH. / 


CoArE, thou best of painters, 


I FILL this cup to one made up 


Prince of the Ehodian art; 


Of loveliness alone. 


Paint, thou best of painters, 


A woman, of her gentle sex 


The mistress of my heart — 


The seeming paragon ; 


Though absent — from the picture 


To whom the better elements 


Which I shall now impart. 


And kindly stars have given 




A form so fair, that, like the air, 


First paint for me her ringlets 


'T is less of earth than heaven. 


Of dark and glossy hue, 




And fragrant odors breathing — 


Her every tone is music's own. 


If this thine art can do. 


Like those of morning birds, 




And something more than melody 


Paint me an ivory forehead 


Dwells ever in her words ; 


That crowns a perfect cheek, 


The coinage of her heart are they, 


And rises under ringlets • 


And from her lips each flows 


Dark-colored, soft, and sleek. 


As one may see the burdened bee 




Forth issue from the rose. 


The spa,ce between the eyebrows 




Nor mingle nor dispart, 




But blend them imperceptibly 


Afl^ections are as thoughts to her. 


And true will be thy art. 


The measures of her hours ; 




Her feelings have the fragrancy. 


From under black-eye fringes 


The freshness of young flowers ; 


Let sunny flashes play — 


And lovely passions, changing oft. 


Cythera's swimming glances. 


So fill her, she appears 


Minerva's azure ray. 


The image of themselves by turns. — 




The idol of past years I 


With milk commingle roses 




To paint a nose and cheeks — 


Of her bright face one glance will trace 


A lip like bland Persuasion's — 


A picture on the brain, 


A lip that kissing seeks. 


And of her voice in echoing hearts 


, 


A sound must long remain ; 


Within the chin luxurious 


But memory, such as mine of her. 


Let all the graces fair. 


So very much endears. 


Eound neck of alabaster, 


When death is nigh my latest sigh 


Be ever flitting there. 


Will not be life's, but hers. 


And now in robes invest her 




Of palest purple dyes. 


I fill this cup to one made up 


Betraying fair proportions 


Of loveliness alone, 


To our delighted eyes. 


A woman, of her gentle sex 




The seeming paragon — 


Cease, cease, I see before me 


Her health ! and would on earth there 
stood 
Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, 


The picture of my choice ! 
And quickly wilt thou give me — 
The music of thy voice. 


Anaoeeon. (Greek.) 


And weariness a name. 


Translation of William Hay. 


Edwabd Coates Phtkitey. 



280 



POEMS OF LOYE 



LOVE SOKG. 

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty 

slumbers, 
Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through 

her hair I 
Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy 

numbers 
Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air ! 

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is 

teeming 
To wind round the willow banks that lure 

him from above ; 
O that, in tears, from my rocky prison 

streaming, 
I, too, could ghde to the bower of my love ! 

Ah, where the woodbiues, with sleepy ai'ms, 

have wound her. 
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, 
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains 

echo round her. 
To her lost mate's call in the forests far away ! 

Gome, then, my bird! for the peace thou 

ever bearest. 
Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me — 
Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfulest, my 

fairest. 
Bleeds with its death-wound — but deeper 

yet for thee ! 

Geoege Daeley. 



SYLVIA. 

I 'vE taught thee Love's sweet lesson o'er — 

A task that is not learned with tears : 
"Was Sylvia e'er so blest before 
Li her wild, solitary years ? 

Then what does he deserve, the youth 
Who made her con so dear a truth ? 

Till now in silent vales to roam, 

Singing vain songs to heedless flowers. 
Or watch the dashing billows foam, 
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers — 
To weave light crowns of various hue — 
TVere all the joys thy bosom knew. 



The wild bird, though most musical. 

Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ; 
The streamlet, and the waterfall, 
Could only weep when thou didst sigh ! 
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word 
Either with billow, or with bird. 

For leaves and flowers, but these alone, 
Winds have a soft, discoursing way ; 
Heaven's starry talk is all its own, — 
It dies in thunder far away. 
E'en when thou wouldst the moon be- 
guile 
To speak, — she only deigns to smile ! 

ITow, birds and winds, be churlish still ! 

Ye waterg, keep your sullen roar ! 
Stars, be as distant as ye will, — 
Sylvia need court ye now no more : 
In Love there is society 
She never yet could find with ye ! 

Geoege Daelet. 



EOSALIE. 

O, POUE upon my soul again 
That sad, unearthly strain. 

That seems from other worlds to plain ; 

Thus faUiQg, falling from afar. 

As if some melancholy star 

Had mingled with her light her sighs. 
And dropped them from the skies. 

Ko — ^never came from aught below 

This melody of woe. 
That makes my heart to overflow 
As from a thousand gushing springs 
Unknown before ; that with it brings 
This nameless light — if light it be — 

That veils the world I see. 

For all I see around me wears 
The hue of other spheres ; 
And something blent of smiles and tears 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 
0, nothing, sure, the stars beneath. 
Can mould a sadness like to this — 
So like angelic bliss. 



SONGS. 



281 



So, at that dreamy hour of day, 
When the last lingering ray 

Stops on the highest cloud to play — 

So thought the gentle Eosalie 

As on her maiden revery 

First fell the strain of him who stole 
In music to her soul. 

Washington Allston. 



SONG. 



Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispers- 
ing 
That burden treasured in your hearts too 
long; 
Sing it with voice low-breathed, but 
never name her : 
She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing 
High thoughts, too high to mate with mor- 
tal song — 
Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do 
not claim her ! 



In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses. 
She shades the bloom of her unearthly 



The forest winds alone approach to woo 
her. 
Far off we catch the dark gleam of her 
tresses ; 
And wild birds haunt the wood-walks 
where she strays. 
Intelligible music warbling to her. 

ni. 
That spirit charged to foUow and defend her. 
He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain ; 
And she perhaps is sad, hearing his 
sighing. 
And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; 
Like some sweet singer's, when her sweet- 
est strain 
From the heaved heart is gradually 
dying! 

Attbeet db Vbeb. 



THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing 
round him. 
Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth 
is laid ; 
Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has 
bound him. 
Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and 
fair, is undecayed. 

When win he awaken ? 

When wiU he awaken? a loud voice hath 
been crying 
Night after night, and the cry has been in 
vain ; 
Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for 
replying. 
But the tones of the beloved ones were 
never heard again. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asked the midnight's silver queen. 

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleep- 
ing; 
Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned 
for him as dead ; 
By day the gathered clouds have had him in 
their keeping. 
And at night the solemn shadows round 
his rest are shed. 

When will he awaken ? 

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's im- 
ploring ; 
Long has Hope been watching with soft 
eyes fixed above ; 
When win the Fates, the life of life restoring. 
Own themselves vanquished by much- 
enduring Love ? 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's weary queen. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched un- 
tiring, • 
Lighted up with visions from yonder ra- 
diant sky. 
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring. 
Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh. 
When will he awaken ? 



282 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, 
And tlie Poet's world has entered in his 
soul; 
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral 

glories, 
When sages and when kings first upheld the 
mind's control. 

When wUl he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour 
is fated ! 
It is Endymion's planet that rises on the 
air; 
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has 
waited. 
Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! 
Soon he will awaken. 

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of sing- 
ing, 
Tones that seem the lute's from the breath- 
ing flowers depart ; 
Kot a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos 
but is bringing 
Music that is murmured from IsTature's in- 
most heart. 

Soon he will awaken 
To his and midnight's queen I 

Lovely is the green earth, — she knows the 
hour is holy ; 
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal 

joy; 

Light like their own is dawning sweet and 
slowly 
O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of 
that yet dreaming boy. 

Soon he wiU awaken ! 

Red as the red rose towards the morning 
turning. 
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's 
near his own ; 
.While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, 
and burning 
With a life more glorious than, ere they 
closed, was known. 

Yes, he has awakened 
For the midnight's happy queen I 



What is this old history, but a lesson given. 
How true love still conquers by the deep 
strength of truth — 
How aU the impulses, whose native home is 
heaven. 
Sanctify the visions ot hope, and faith, and 
youth ? 

'T is for such they waken ! 

When every worldly thought is utterly for- 
saken. 
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's 
gifted few ; 
Then wiU the spirit from its earthly sleep 
awaken 
To a being more intense, more spiritual, 
and true. 

So doth the soul awaken, 
Like that youth to night's fair queen ! 

L^TiTiA Elizabeth Maclean. 



soN'a. 



Day, in melting purple dying ; 
Blossoms, all around me sighing ; 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; 

Ye but waken my distress ; 

I am sick of loneliness ! 

Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me. 
Say thou 'rt true, and I '11 believe thee ; 
Veil, if iU, thy soul's intent. 
Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; 

All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 

Let the shining ore lie darkling — 

Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; 

Gifts and gold are naught to me : 
I would only look on thee ! 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Eapture in participation ; 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
Li a lone, unfriended breast. 



SONGS. 283 


Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me I 


I wiU this dreary blank of absence make 


L«t these eyes again caress thee. 


A noble task-time ; and wiU therein strive 


Once in caution, I could fly thee ; 


To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 


Now, I nothing could deny thee. 


More good than I have won since yet I live. 


In a look if death there be. 




Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 


So may this doomed time build up in me 


Maria Beooks. 


A thousand graces, which shall thus be 




thine; 
So may my love and longing hallowed be, 






And thy dear thought an influence divine. 


ARSEI^CE. 


Feances Anne Kemble. 


What shall I do with all the days and hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 






How shall I charm the interval that lowers 




Between this time and that sweet time of 


THE GEOOMSMAN TO HIS MISTKESS. 


grace? 




Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense — 


I. 

EvEEY wedding, says the proverb, 


Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away 


Makes another, soon or late ; 


Into past days, and with some fond pretence 


l^ever yet was any marriage 


Cheat myself to forget the present day ? - 


Entered in the book of Fate, 




But the names were also written 


Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 


Of the patient pair that wait. 


Of casting from me God's great gift of 

flTTlP? * 




III lilt/ 5 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked with- 


n. 

Blessings then upon the morning 


in, 


When my friend, with fondest look, 


Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? 


By the solemn rites' permission. 




To himself his mistress took, 


0, how, or by what means, may I contrive 


And the Destinies recorded 


To bring the hour that brings thee back 


Other two within their book. 


more near ? 




How may I teach my drooping hope to live 


m. 


Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 


WhUe the priest fulfilled his office. 




Still the ground the lovers eyed, ^ 


I '11 teU thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold ' 


And the parents and the kinsmen 


Of aU good aims, and consecrate to thee. 


Aimed their glances at the bride ; 


In worthy deeds, each moment that is told 


But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 


While thou, beloved one! art far from 
me. 


Who were waiting at her side. 


For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 


IV. 

Three there were that stood beside her ; 


All heavenward flights, all high and holy 


One was dark, and one was fair ; 


strains; ' 


But nor fair nor dark the other. 


For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 


Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 


Through these long hours, nor call their 


ITeither dark nor fair I call her, 


minutes pains. 


Yet she was the fairest there. 



284 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



V. 

While her groomsman — shall I own it ? 

Yes, to thee, and only thee — 
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 

Who was fairest of the three, 
Thus he thought : " How blest the bridal 

Where the bride were such as she I " 

VI. 

Then I mused upon the adage, 
Till my wisdom was perplexed, 

And I wondered, as the churchman 
Dwelt upon his holy text, 

Which of all who heard his lesson 
Should require the service next. 

vn. 
Whose will be the next occasion 

For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? 
Thine, perchance, my dearest lady ; 

Or, who knows ? — ^it may be mine i 
What if 't were — forgive the fancy — 
What if 't were — ^both mine and thine ? 
Thomas "William Paesons. 



SONG. 



How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at Love's beginning, 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there 's no untying ! 

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 
Love has bliss, but Love has rueing ; 
Other smiles may make you fickle ; 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love he tarries. 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays when sorest chidden ; 
Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden, 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly ; 
Bind its odor to the lily ; 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver ; 
Then bind Love to last for ever ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE NUK. 



Lf you become a nun, dear, 

A friar I will be ; 
Li any cell you run, dear, 

Pray look behind for me. 
The roses all turn pale, too ; 
The doves all take the veil, too ; 

The blind will see the show : 
What ! you become a nun, my dear ? 

I '11 not believe it, no ! 



If you become a nun, dear, 

The bishop Love will be ; 
The Cupids every one, dear. 

Win chant, " We trust in thee ! " 
The incense will go sighing, 
The candles fall a dying, 

The water turn to wine : 
What ! you go take the vows, my dear ? 

You may — ^but they '11 be mine. 

Leigh Hitnt, 



OEABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 

Oeabbed Age and Youth 

Cannot live together : 
Youth is full of pleasance, 

Age is full of care ; 
Youth like summer morn, 

Age like winter weather ; 
Youth like Summer brave. 

Age like Winter bare. 
Youth is full of sport, 
Age's breath is short ; 

Youth is nimble. Age is lame ; 
Youth is hot and bold, 
Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and Age is tame. 
Age, I do abhor thee. 
Youth, I do adore thee ; 

O, my love, my love is young ! 
Age, I do defy thee ; 
0, sweet shepherd ! hie thee. 

For methinks thou stay'st too long. 
Shakespeaeb. 



SONGS. 



285 



THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 

Genteel in personage, 
Conduct and equipage ; 
Noble by heritage, 

Generous and free ; 

Brave, not romantic ; 
Learned, not pedantic ; 
Frolic, not frantic — 
This must he be. 

Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining, 
Still entertaining, 

Engaging and new ; 

Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, 
But ever true. 



AlTONYMOUS. 



SONG. 



"Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Pr'y thee, why so pale ? — 
Will, when looking well can't move her. 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Pr'y thee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Pr'y thee, why so mute ? — 
WUl, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do 't ? 

Pr'y thee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her — 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : 

The Devil take her! 

BiE John SuOKLma. 



THE SHEPHERD'S EESOLUTION. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman 's fair ? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
' Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day. 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how fair she be ? 



Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind? 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
The turtle-dove or pelican — 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or, her well-deservings known, 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may merit name of Best, 
If she be not such to me. 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do 
That without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see. 
What care I how great she be ? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair : 
If she love me, this believe — 
I will die ere she shall grieve. 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 

Geoege 'WrrHEB. 



286 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



FLY NOT YET. 

Fly not yet — 't is just the hour 
When pleasure, like the midnight flower, 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 
Begins to bloom for sons of night. 

And maids who love the moon ! 
'T was but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon were made ; 
'T is then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing ! . 

0! stay,— 0! stay,— 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that ! 't is pain 

To break its links so soon. 

Fly not yet ! the fount that played. 

In times of old, through Ammon's shade, 

Though icy cold by day it ran. 

Yet still, like sounds of mirth, began 

To burn when night was near ; 
And thus should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as winter-brooks, 
ISTor kindle till the night, returning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

O ! stay, — ! stay, — 
When did morning ever break 
And find such beaming eyes awake 

As those that sparkle here ! 

Thomas Mooke. 



TO 



Too late I stayed — forgive the crime — 

Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account, remarks 

The ebbings of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond sparks. 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings. 

When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage to his wings ? 

EoBEET William Spenoee. 



NATUEA NATUKANS. 

Beside me, — in the car, — she sat ; 

She spake not, no, nor looked to me. 
From her to me, from me to her. 

What passed so subtly, stealthily ? 
As rose to rose, that by it blows, 

Its interchanged aroma flings ; 
Or wake to sound of one sweet note 

The virtues of disparted strings. 

Beside me, nought but this ! — but this, 

That influent ; as within me dwelt 
Her life ; mine too within her breast. 

Her brain, her every limb, she felt. 
We sat ; while o'er and in us, more 

And more, a power unknown prevailed, 
Inhaling and inhaled, — and still 

'T was one, inhaling or inhaled. 

Beside me, nought but this ; and passed — 

I passed ; and know not to this day 
If gold or jet her girlish hair — 

If black, or brown, or lucid-gray 
Her eye's young glance. The flckle chance 

That joined us yet may join again ; 
But I no face again could greet 

As hers, whose life was in me then. 

As unsuspecting mere a maid — 

As fresh inmaidhood's bloomiest bloom — 
In casual second-class did e'er 

By casual youth her seat assume ; 
Or vestal, say, of saintliest clay. 

For once by balmiest airs betrayed 
Unto emotions too, too sweet 

To be unlingeringly gainsayed. 

Unowning then, confusing soon 

With dreamier dreams that o'er the glass 
Of shyly ripening woman-sense 

Eeflected, scarce reflected, pass — 
A wife may be, a mother, she 

In Hymen's shrine recalls not now 
She flrst — in hour, ah, not profane ! — 

With me to Hymen learnt to bow. 

Ah no ! — ^yet owned we, fused in one. 

The Power which, e'en in stones and earths 

By blind elections felt, in forms 
Organic breeds to myriad births ; 



SONGS. 



287 



By lichen small on granite wall 
Approved, its faintest, feeblest stir 

Slow-spreading, strengthening long, at last 
Vibrated full in me and her. 

In me and her sensation strange ! 

The lily grew to pendant bead ; 
To vernal airs the mossy bank 

Its sbeeny primrose spangles spread '; 
In roof o'er roof of shade sun-proof 

Did cedar strong itself outclimb ; 
And altitude of aloe proud 

Aspire in floreal crown sublime ; 

Flashed flickering forth fantastic flies ; 

Big bees then- burly bodies swung ; 
Books roused with civic din the elms ; 

And lark its wild reveille rung ; 
In Libyan dell the light gazeUe, 

The leopard lithe in Indian glade, 
And dolphin, brightening tropic seas, 

In us were living, leapt and played ; 

Their shells did slow Crustacea build ; 

Their gilded skins did snakes renew ; 
"While mightier spines for loftier kind 

Their types in amplest limbs outgrew ; 
Yea, close comprest in human breast. 

What moss, and tree, and livelier thing — 
What Earth, Sun, Star, of force possest. 

Lay budding, burgeoning forth for Spring ! 

Such sweet preluding sense of old 

Led on in Eden's sinless place 
The hour when bodies human first 

Combined the primal prime embrace ; 
Such genial heat the blissful seat 

In man and woman owned unblamed, 
When, naked both, its garden paths 

They walked unconscious, unashamed ; 

Ere, clouded yet in mistiest dawn, 

Above the horizon dusk and dun. 
One mountain crest with light had tipped 

That orb that is the spirit's sun ; 
Ere dreamed young flowers in vernal showers 

Of fruit to rise the flower above, 
Or ever yet to young Desire 

Was told the mystic name of Love. 

Aethub Hcgh Clottgh. 



THE CHEAT OF CUPID ; 

OE, THE UNGENTLE GUEST. 

One silent night of late, 
WTien every creature rested, 

Came one unto my gate. 
And, knocking, me molested. 

Who 's that, said I, beats there, 
And troubles thus the sleepy ? 

Cast ofi", said he, all fear, 
And let not locks thus keep thee. 

For I a boy am, who 

By moonless nights have swerved ; 
And all with showers wet through. 

And e'en with cold half starved. 

I, pitiful, arose. 

And soon a taper lighted ; 
And did myself disclose 

IJnto the lad benighted. 

I saw he had a bow. 

And wings, too, which did shiver ; 
And, looking down below, 

I spied he had a quiver. 

I to my chimney's shrine 
Brought him, as Love professes, 

And chafed his hands with mine, 
And dryed his dripping tresses. 

But when that he felt warmed : 
Let 's try this bow of ours, 

And string, if they be harmed. 
Said he, with these late showers. 

Forthwith his bow he bent. 
And wedded string and arrow. 

And struck me, that it went 

Quite through my heart and marrow. 

Then, laughing loud, he flew 
Away, and thus said flying : 

Adieu, mine host, adieu ! 

I 'U leave thy heart a-dying. 

Anaceeon. (Greek.) 
Translation of Robeet Heeeick. 



288 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



SONG. 



Steiye not, vain lover, to be fine ; 

Thy silk 's the silkworm's, and not thine ; 
You lessen to a fly your mistress' thought. 
To think it may be in a cobweb caught. 

What though her thiii, transparent lawn 

Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn ? 
Not all the arms the god of fire ere made. 
Can the soft bulwarks of naked love invade. 



n. 

Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress 
In her fair soul's immaculate glass ; 
Then by reflection you may have the bliss 
Perhaps to see what a true fineness is ; 
When all your gauderies will fit 
Those only that are poor in wit : 
She that a clinquant outside doth adore, 
Dotes on a gilded statue, and no more. 

KicHAED Lovelace. 



DEOEITFULNESS OF LOVE. 

Go, sit by the summer sea, 
Thou whom scorn wasteth, 

And let thy musing be 
Where the fiood hasteth. 

Mark how o'er ocean's breast 

EoUs the hoar billow's crest ; 

Such is his heart's unrest, 
Who of love tasteth. 



Griev'st thou that hearts should change ? 

Lo ! where life reigneth. 
Or the free sight doth range. 

What long remaineth ? 
Spring with her fiowers doth die ; 
Fast fades the gilded sky ; 
And the full moon on high 

Ceaselessly waneth. 



Smile, then, ye sage and wise ; 

And if love sever 
Bonds which thy soul doth prize, 

Such does it ever ! 
Deep as the rolling seas, 
Soft as the twilight breeze. 
But of more than these 

Boast could it never ! 



Anonymotts. 



IF I DESIRE WITH PLEASANT SONGS. 

If I desire with pleasant songs 
To throw a merry hour away. 

Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 
In careful tale he doth display. 

And asks me how I stand for singing 

While I my helpless hands am wringing. 

And then another time, if I 
A noon in'shady bower would pass, 

Comes he with stealthy gestures sly. 
And flinging down upon the grass, 

Quoth he to me : My master dear, 

Think of this noontide such a year ! 

And if elsewhile I lay my head 
On piUow, with intent to sleep, 

Lies Love beside me on the bed. 

And gives me ancient words to keep ; 

Says he : These looks, these tokens num- 
ber — 

May be, they '11 help you to a slumber. 

So every time when I would yield 
An hour to quiet, comes he still ; 

And hunts up every sign concealed. 
And every outward sign of ill ! 

And gives me his sad face's pleasures 

For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's. 
Thomas Bubbidoh. 



SONGS. 



289 



THE ANNOYER. 

Love knoweth every form of air, 

And every shape of earth, 
And comes unbidden every where, 

Like thought's mysterious birth. 
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 

Are written with Love's words. 
And you hear his voice unceasingly, 

Like song in the time of birds. 

He peeps into the warrior's heart 

From the tip of a stooping plume, 
And the serried spears, and the many men 

May not deny him room. 
He '11 come to his tent in the weary night. 

And be busy in his dream, 
And he '11 float to his eye in the morning light, 

Like a fay on a silver beam. 

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun. 

And rides on the echo back. 
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf. 

And flits in his woodland track. 
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the 
river. 

The cloud and the open sky, — 
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver. 

Like the light of your very eye. 

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat. 

And ponders the silver sea, 
For Love is under the surface hid. 

And a spell of thought has he ; 
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 

And speaks in the ripple low. 
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 

And the hook hangs bare below. 

He blurs the print of the scholar's book. 

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
And profanes the cell of the holy man 

In the shape of a lady fair. 
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,. 

In earth, and sea, and sky. 
In every home of human thought 

Will Love be lurking nigh. 

Nathaniel Paekee Willis. 

19 



EORY O'MORE; 



OE, GOOD OMENS, 



Young Eory O'More courted Kathleen bawn — 
He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the 

dawn; 
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to 

please. 
And he thought the best way to do that was 

to tease. 
"IsTow, Eory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would 

cry, 
Eeproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye — 
" With your tricks, I do n't know, in throth, 

what I 'm about ; 
Faith you 've teazed tiU I 've put on my cloak 

inside out." 
" Och ! jewel," says Eory, " that same is the 

way 
You've thrated my heart fon this many a 

day; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to 

be sure? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Eory 

O'More. 



"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think 

of the like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering 

Mike; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I '11 be 

bound" — 
"Faith!" says Eory, "I'd rather love you 

than the ground." 
" Now, Eory, I '11 cry if you do n't let me go ; 
Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating 



you so 



!" 



" Och ! " says Eory, " that same I 'm delighted 

to hear, 
For dhrames always go by conthraries, my 

dear. 
Och! jewel, keep dhraming that same till 

you die. 
And bright morning wiU give dirty night the 

black lie ! 



290 POEMS OF LOVE. 


And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to 


Gin a body meet a body 


be sure ? 


Comin' frae the town. 


Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Kory 


Gin a body greet a body. 


O'More. 


Need a body frown ? 




Every lassie has her laddie — 


m. 


Ne'er a ane hae I ; 




Yet a' the lads they smile at me 


" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teazed 


When comin' through the rye. 


me enough ; 


Amang the train there is a swain 


Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny 


I dearly We myseV ; 


Grimes and Jim Duff; 


But whaur his hame^ or what his name, 


And I 've made myself, drinking your health, 


I dinna ca/re to tell 


quite a baste, 


Anonymous. 


So I think, after that, I may talk to the 
priest." 






Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 




her neck. 


MOLLY CAREW. 


So soft and so white, without freckle or 




speck ; 


OcH hone ! and what will I do ? 


And he looked in her eyes, that were beam- 


Sure my love is all crost 


ing with light. 


Like a bud in the frost ; 


And he kissed her sweet lips — do n't you think 


And there 's no use at all in my going to bed, 


he was right ? 


For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes 


" Now, Rory, leave off, sir— you '11 hug me 


into my head ; 


no more— 


And 'tis all about you. 


That 's eight times to-day you have kissed me 


My sweet Molly Carew — 


before." 


And indeed 't is a sin and a shame ! 


" Then here goes another," says he, " to make 


You 're complater than Nature 


sure. 


In every feature ; 


For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 


The snow can 't compare 


O'More. 


With your forehead so fair ; 


Samttel Lotee. 


And I rather would see just one blink of your 




eye 
Than the prettiest star that shines out of the 
sky; 






And by this and by that. 


00¥TT^G THROUGH THE RYE. 


For the matter o' that, 
You 're more distant by far than that same ! 




Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


Gm a body meet a body 


I 'm alone in this world without you. 


Comin' through the rye, 




Gin a body kiss a body, 


Och hone ! but why should I spake 


Need a body cry ? 


Of your forehead and eyes. 


Every lassie has her laddie — 


When your nose it defies 


Ne'er a ane hae I ; 


Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 


Yet a' the lads they smile at me 


rhyme ; 


When comin' through the rye. 


Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would 


Amang the t/)'ain there is a swain 


call it snublime. 


I dearly We myseV ; 


And then for your cheek. 


But whaur Ms hame^ or what his name^ 


Troth 't would take him a week 


I dinna care to tell. 


Its beauties to tell, as he 'd rather ; 



SONGS. 291 


Then your lips ! 0, macliree ! 


And tho' you 're fair and fresh as a morning 


In their beautiful glow 


in May, 


They a pattern might be 


While she 's short and dark like a cold win- 


For the cherries to grow. 


ter's day. 


'T was an apple that tempted our mother, we 


Yet if you do n't repent 


know, 


Before Easter, when Lent 


For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; 


Is over, I '11 marry for spite, 


But at this time o' day. 


Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


'Pon my conscience I '11 say. 


And when I die for you, 


Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! 


My ghost will haunt you every night. 


Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


Samttel Loveb. 


I'm alone in this world without you. 
Och hone ! by the man in the moon, 






You taze me all ways 


WIDOW MACFEFF.. 


That a woman can plaze. 




For you dance twice as high with that thief, 


I. 


Pat Magee, 




As when you take share of a jig, dear, with 


Widow machree, it 's no wonder you frown — 


me. 


Och hone ! Widow machree ; 


Tho' the piper I bate. 


Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 


For fear the ould cheat 


black gown — 


Would n't play you your favorite tune. 


Och hone ! Widow machree. 


And when you 're at mass 


How altered your air. 


My devotion you crass, 


With that close cap you wear — 


For 't is thinking of you 


'T is destroying your hair, 


I a,m^ Molly Oarew. 


Which should be flowing free : 


"While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep 


Be no longer a churl 


That I can 't at your sweet pretty face get a 


Of its black silken curl — 


peep. 


Och hone ! Widow machree ! 


0, lave off that bonnet, 




Or else I '11 lave on it 


n. 


The loss of my wandering sowl ! 


Widow machree, now the summer is come 


Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


Och hone ! Widow machree ! 


Och hone ! like an owl. 


When every thing smiles, should a beauty 


Day is night, dear, to me without you ! 


look glum ? 


Och hone ! do n't provoke me to do it ; 
For there 's girls by the score 


Och hone ! Widow machree ! 
See the birds go in pairs, 
And the rabbits and hares — 


That loves me — and more ; 




1 


Why, even the bears 


And you 'd look very quare if some morning 
you 'd meet 


Now in couples agree ; 


And the mute little fish. 


My wedding all marching in pride down the 


Though they can 't spake, they wish — 


bl/I ecu , 


Och hone ! Widow machree. 


Troth, you 'd open your eyes. 




And you 'd die with surprise 




To think 't was n't you was come to it ! 


m. 


And faith, Katty Naile, 


Widow machree, and when winter comes in— 


And her cow, I go bail, 


Och hone ! Widow machree— 


Would jump if I'd say. 


To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 


"Katty Naile, name the day ; " 


Och hone ! Widow machree. 



292 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Sure the shovel and tongs 




To each other belongs, 


THE MAID'S LAMENT. 


And the kettle sings songs 




Full of family glee ; 


I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 


"While alone with your cup, 


I feel I am alone. 


Like a hermit you sup, 


I checked him while he spoke ; yet, could he 


Och hone ! "Widow machree. 


speak. 




Alas ! I would not check. 


IV. 


For reasons not to love him once I sought, 


And how do you know, with the comforts 


And wearied aU my thought 


I 've towld — 


To vex myself and him ; I now would give 


Och hone! "Widow machree — 


My love, could he but live 


But you're keeping some poor fellow out in 


Who lately lived for me, and, when he found 


the cowld, 


'Twas vain, in holy ground 


Och hone ! Widow machree ! 


He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 


"With such sins on your head, 


I waste for him my breath 


Sure your peace would be fled ; 


"Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns. 


Could you sleep in your bed 


And this lone bosom burns 


"Without thinking to see 


With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 


Some ghost or some sprite. 


And waking me to weep 


That would wake you each night. 


Tears that had melted his soft heart ; for years 


Crying, "Och hone! "Widow machree!" 


Wept he as bitter tears ! 




"Merciful God! " such was his latest prayer, 


V. 


" These may she never share ! " 


Then take my advice, darling "Widow ma- 


Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 


chree — 


Than daisies in the mould. 


Och hone ! "Widow machree — 


"Where children spell, athwart the churchyard 


And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take 


gate. 


me, 


His name and life's brief date. 


Och hone ! "Widow machree! 


Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be. 


You 'd have me to desire 


And ! pray, too, for me ! 


Then to stir up the fire ; 


Waltek Savage Landoe. 


And sure Hope is no liar 




In whispering to me, 
That the ghosts would depart 






"When you 'd me near your heart — 




Och hone ! Widow machree ! 


LOVE UNKEQUITED. 


Samuel Loveb. 




^ 


Though thou say'st thou lov'st me not, 




And although thou bidd'st me blot 


JENNY inSSED ME. 


From my heart, and from my brain. 




All this consciousness of thee. 


Jenny kissed me when we met, 


With its longing, its blest pain. 


Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 


And its deathless memory 


Time, you thief! who love to get 


Of the hope, — ah, why in vain ? — 


Sweets into your list, put that in. 


That thy great heart might beat for me ;— 


Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; 


Ask it not, — ^Love fixed so high, 


Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 


Though unrequited, cannot die ; 


Say I 'm growing old, but add— 


In my soul such love hath root. 


Jenny kissed me ! 


And the world shall have the fruit. 


Leigh Hukt. 


Anontuotjs. 



ONE WAY OF LOVE. 



293 



MSCONOEPTIONS. 



This is a spray the Bird clung to, 
Making it blossom with pleasure, 

Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 
Fit for her nest and her treasure. 
O, what a hope beyond measure 

"Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet 
hung to, — 

So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 

n. 

This is a heart the Queen leant on, 

Thrilled in a minute erratic, 
Ere the true bosom she bent on, 
Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 
O, what a fancy ecstatic 
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer 

went on — 
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent 
on! 

EOBEET BeOWNING. 



BALLAD. 

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse 

And Beauty's fairest queen. 
Though 't is not for my peasant lips 

To soil her name between. 
A king might lay his sceptre down, 

But I am poor and nought ; 
The brow should wear a golden crown 

That wears her in its thought. 

The diamonds glancing in her hair, 

Whose sudden beams surprise. 
Might bid such humble hopes beware 

The glancing of her eyes ; 
Yet, looking once, I looked too long ; 

And if my love is sin. 
Death follows on the heels of wrong, 

And kills the crime within. 

Her dress seemed wove of lily leaves, 

It was so pure and fine — 
O lofty wears, and lowly weaves, 

But hoddan gray is mine ; 



And homely hose must step apart. 
Where gartered princes stand ; 

Bat may he wear my love at heart 
That wins her lily hand ! 

Alas ! there 's far from russet frieze 

To silks and satin gowns ; 
But I doubt if God made like degrees 

In courtly hearts and clowns. 
My father wronged a maiden's mirth. 

And brought her cheeks to blame ; 
And aU that 's lordly of my birth 

Is my reproach and shame ! 

'Tis vain to weep, 'tis vain to sigh, 

'T is vain this idle speech — 
For where her happy pearls do lie 

My tears may never reach ; 
Yet when I 'm gone, e'en lofty pride 

May say, of what has been. 
His love was nobly born and died, 

Tho' all the rest was mean ! 

My speech is rude, — but speech is weak 

Such love as mine to tell ; 
Yet had I words, I dare not speak : 

So, Lady, fare thee well ! 
I will not wish thy better state 

Was one of low degree, 
But I must weep that partial Fate 

Made such a churl of me. 

Thomas Hood. 



OKE WAY OF LOVE. 



All June I bound the rose in sheaves ; 
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves, 
And strew them where Pauline may pass. 
She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 

II. 

How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day I venture all I know. 
She will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string — fold music's wing. 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 



294 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



m. 

My whole life long I learned to love ; 

This hour my utmost art I prove 

And speak my passion. — Heaven or hell ? 

She will not give me heaven ? 'T is well ! 

Lose who may — I stiU can say, 

Those who win heaven, blest are they. 

EOBEET BeOWNXNG. 



THE DKEAM. 



OuE life is twofold : sleep hath its own 

world — 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality ; 
And dreams in their development have 

breath. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of 

joy; 
They leave a weight upon our waking 

thoughts ; 
They take a weight from off oni* waking 

toils ; 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of Eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they 



Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what 

they will ; 
They shake us with the vision that 's gone 

by. 
The dread of vanished shadows — are they 

so? 
Is not the past all shadow ? "What are they ? 
Creations of the mind ? — the mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and 

give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all 

flesh. 
I would recall a vision, which I dreamed 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
Green and of mild declivity; the last, 
As 't were the cape, of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of 

men 
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array — so fixed, 
Not by the sport of Nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath ; 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beau- 
tiful; 
And both were young — yet not alike in 

youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers ; but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth. 
And that was shining on him ; he had looked 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words; she was his 

sight. 
For his eye followed hers, and saw with 

hers. 
Which colored all his objects ; — ^he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life. 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
Which terminated all ; upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and 

flow. 
And his cheek change tempestuously — ^his 

heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
Even as a brother — ^but no more; 'twas 

much; 
For brotherless she was, save in the name 
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him — 
Herself the solitary scion left 



THE DREAM. 



295 



Of a time-honored race. — It was a name 
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him 

not — and why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she 

loved 
Another. Even now she loved another; 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

m. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
There was an ancient mansion ; and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned. 
Within an antique oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; — ^he was alone. 
And pale, and pacing to and fro. Anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen and 

traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he 

leaned 
His bowed head on his hands, and shook, as 

't were 
With a convulsion — then arose again ; 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did 

tear 
What he had written ; but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet. As he paused. 
The lady of his love reentered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then ; and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved; she 

knew — 
How quickly comes such knowledge! that 

his heart 
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched ; but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced ; and then it faded as it came. 
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow 

steps 
Retired ; but not as bidding her adieu, 
For they did part with mutual smiles. He 

passed 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall ; 
And, mounting on his steed, he went his way ; 
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold 

more. 



IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The Boy was sprung to manhood. In the 

wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was 

girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay, 
Eeposing from the noontide sultriness. 
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them ; by his sleeping 

side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumbered around ; 
And they were canopied by the blue sky — 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The Lady of his love was wed with one 
Who did not love her better. In her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — ^her native 

home — 
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. 
Daughters and sons of Beauty. But behold ! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
What could her grief be ? — She had all she 

loved ; 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 
Or ill-repressed affection, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him 

not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself be- 
loved ; 
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



296 



POEMS OF LOVE 



VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of mj dream : 
The Wanderer was returned — I saw him 

stand 
Before an altar, with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair ; but was not that which 

made 
The starlight of his Boyhood. As he stood, 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering 

shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced— and then it faded as it came ; 
And he stood calm and quiet ; and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own 

words ; 
And all things reeled around him ; he could 

see 
Not that which was, nor that which should 

have been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustomed 

haU, 
And the remembered chambers, and the 

place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the 

shade — 
All things pertaining to that place and hour. 
And her who was his destiny — came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

Hght: 
What business had they there at such a time ? 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The Lady of his love — ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling; and her 

eyes. 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things; 
And forms impalpable, and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy; but the 

wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 



Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

vin. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The Wanderer was alone, as heretofore ; 
The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation — compassed round 
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was 

mixed 
In all which was served up to him ; until. 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 
He fed on poisons ; and they had no power, 
But were a kind of nutriment. He lived 
Through that which had been death to many 

men; 
And made him friends of mountains. With 

the stars. 
And the quick spirit of the Universe, 
He held his dialogues ! and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
To him the book of Kight was opened wide, 
And voices from the deep abyss revealed 
A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 



My dream was past: it had no further 

change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 
Of these two creatures should be thus traced 

out 
Almost like a reality — the one 
To end in madness — ^both in misery. 

LoED Bykon. 



ASK ME NO MORE. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the 
sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take 

the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape. 
But, too fond, when have I answered thee ? 
Ask me no more. 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 



297 



Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eje ; 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 
sealed. 
I strove against the stream and all in vain. 
Let the great river take me to the main. 
ISTo more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more ! 

Alfeed Tenntson. 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A kneU to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well. 
Long, long, shall I rue thee 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 



If I, should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee ?- 

In silence and tears. 



LOED Byeon. 



IT MIGHT HAVE PEEK 

An August evening, on a balcony 
That overlooked a woodland and a lake, 
I sat in the still air, and talked with one 
Whose face shone fairer than the crescent 

moon. 
Just over-head, a violin and flute 
Played prelude to a dance. Their long- 
drawn chords 
Poured through the windows, gaping sum- 
mer-wide, 
A flood of notes that, flowing outward, swept 
To the last ripple of the orchard trees. 

I had not known her long, but loved her 

more 
Than I could dream of then — O, even now 
I dare not dwell upon my passion, — ^more 
Than life itself I loved her, and still love. 

The white enchantment of her dimpled hand 
Lay soft in mine ! I looked into her eyes ; 
I knew I was unworthy, but I felt 
That I was noble if she did but smile. 

A light of stars shone round her head ; I saw 
The sombre shores that gloomed the lake 

below ; 
The shadows settling on the distant hills ; 
I heard the pleasant music of the night, 
Brought by the wind, a vagrant messenger. 
From the deep forest and the broad, sweet 

fields. 

But when she spoke, and her pervasive voice 

Stole on me till I trembled to my knees, 

I pressed my lips to hers — then round me 

glowed 
A sudden light, that seemed to flash me on, 
Beyond myself, beyond the fainting stars. 
Then all the bleak disheartenings of a life 
That had not been of pleasure faded ofij 



298 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And left me with a purpose, and a hope 
That 1 was born for something braver than 
To hang my head and wear a nameless name. 

That hour has passed, nor ever came again. 
TTe all do live such — so I would believe. 
Life's mere arithmetic and prose are mine, 
And I have missed the beauty of the world. 

Let this remembrance comfort me, — that 

when 
My heart seemed bursting — ^like a restless 

wave, 
That, swollen with fearful longing for the 

shore, 
Throws its strong life on the imagined bliss 
Of finding peace and undisturbed calm — 
It fell on rock and broke in many tears. 

Else could I bear, on all days of the year, 
Not now alone — this gentle summer night, 
When scythes are busy in the headed grass, 
And the full moon warms me to thought- 
fulness, — 
This voice, that haunts the desert of my soul ; 
"It might have been," alas! "It might have 

been!" 

"William Okoss "Williamson. 



. WE PARTED m SILENCE. 

We parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, 

We met — and we parted for ever ! 
The night-bird sung, and the stars above 

Told many a touching story, 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of 
love. 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 
With the tears that were past controlling; 
We vowed we would never — no, never for- 
get, 
And those vows at the time were con- 
soling; 



But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 
Are as cold as that lonely river ; 

And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine. 
Has shrouded its fires for ever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look, 

And my heart grows full of weeping ; 
Each star is to me a sealed book. 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
We parted in silence — we parted in tears, 

On the banks of that lonely river : 
But the color and bloom of those by-gone 
years 

Shall hang o'er its waters for ever. 

Mb8. Cba-wtokd. 



m A YEAE. 

Never any more 

While I live, 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 
Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive — 
Bitterly we reembrace, 

Single still. 

Was it something said. 

Something done, 
Yexed him ? was it touch of hand, 

Turn of head ? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun. 
I as little understand 
• Love's decay. 

When I sewed or drew, 

I recaU 
How he looked as if I sang 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word, 

First of all 
Up his cheek the color sprang, 

Then he heard. 

Sitting by my side. 

At my feet. 
So he breathed the air I breathed, 

Satisfied ! 



MARIANA IN 


THE SOUTH. 299 


I, too, at love's brim 


Dear, the pang is brief. 


Touched the sweet. 


Do thy part. 


I would die if death bequeathed 


Have thy pleasure. How perplext 


Sweet to him. 


Grows belief! 




Well, this cold clay clod 




Was man's heart. 


" Speak— I love thee best ! 


Crumble it — and what comes next? 


. He exclaimed — 


Is it God? 


" Let thy love my own foretell." - 


EOBEET BeOWNING. 


I confessed : 
" Clasp my heart on thine 




• 


Now unblamed, 




Since upon thy soul as well 


MAKTAN-A. m THE SOUTH. 


Hangeth mine ! " 


T 


"Was it wrong to own, 


■L. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 


Being truth ? 


The house through all the level shines. 


Why should all the giving prove 


Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 


His alone ? 


And silent in its dusty vines ; 


I had wealth and ease. 


A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 


Beauty, youth — 


An empty river-bed before, 


Since my lover gave me love, 


And shallows on a distant shore. 


I gave these. 


In glaring sand and inlets bright. 




But "Ave Mary," made she moan, 


That was all I meant. 


And "Ave Mary," night and morn; 


—To be just. 


And " Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. 


And the passion I had raised 


To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 


To content. 




Since he chose to change 


II. 


Gold for dust. 


She, as her carol sadder grew, 


If I gave him what he praised 


Erom brow and bosom slowly down 


Was it strange ? 


Through rosy taper fingers drew 




Her streaming curls of deepest brown 




To left and right, and made appear, 


Would he loved me yet, 


Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 


On and on. 


Her melancholy eyes divine, 


While I found some way undreamed 


The home of woe without a tear. 


— ^Paidmy debt! 


And "Ave Mary," was her moan. 


Gave more life and more, 


"Madonna, sad is night and morn ; " 


Till, all gone. 


And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, 


He should smile " She never seemed 
Mine before. 


To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 


" What— she felt the while. 


in. 
Till aU the crimson changed, and passed 


Must I think? 


Into deep orange o'er the sea. 


Love 's so different with us men," 


Low on her knees herself she cast, 


He should smile. 


Before Our Lady murmured she ; 


" Dying for my sake — 


Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 


White and pink ! 


To help me of my weary load ! " 


Can 't we touch these bubbles then 


And on the liquid mirror glowed 


But they break ? " 


The clear perfection of her face. 



800 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Is this the form," she made her moan, 
" Tliat won his praises night and morn?" 

And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

IV. 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 
And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass. 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower moan; 

And murmuring, as at night and morn. 
She thought, "My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 



Dreaming, she knew it was a dream ; 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank the sick olive sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whispered, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten, and die forlorn." 



And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth ; 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be true, 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seemed to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone for evermore." 

" O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end — to be left alone. 
To live forgotten, and die forlorn I " 



But sometimes in the falling day 
An image seemed to pass the door. 

To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 



And flaming downward over all, 
From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn; 
And day and night I am left alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



At eve a dry cicala sung ; 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung. 

And leaned upon the balcony. 
There aU in spaces rosy-bright 
Large Hesper glittered on her tears. 
And deepening through the silent spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven, rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 
" The night comes on that knows not 
morn; 
"When I shall cease to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 
Alfeed Tennyson. 



SONG. 



" A WEAET lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

No more of me you knew, 
My love I 
No more of me you knew. 

" This morn is merry June, I trow — 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again." • 
He turned his charger as he spake. 

Upon the river shore ; 
He gave his bridle reins a shake, 

Said, " Adieu for evermore. 
My love ! 
And adieu for evermore." 

Sib "Waltee Scott. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



801 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

CoMEADEs, leave me here a little, while as 

yet 't is early morn — 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 

upon the bugle horn. 

'T is the place, and aU around it, as of old, the 

curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland,flying over 

Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks 

the sandy tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 

cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, 

ere I went to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to 

the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through 

the mellow shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a 

silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing 

a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long 

result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful 
land reposed ; 

When I clung to all the present for the prom- 
ise that it closed ; 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 
could see — 

Saw the vision of the world, and all the won- 
der that would be. 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 
robin's breast ; 

Tn the Spring the wanton lapwing gets him- 
self another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the 

burnished dove ; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly 

turns to thoughts of love. 



Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 
should be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute 
observance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and 

speak the truth to me ; 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 

sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a 

color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 

northern night. 

And she turned — ^her bosom shaken with a 

sudden storm of sighs — 
AU the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of 

hazel eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they 
should do me wrong;" 

Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weep- 
ing, "I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned 

it in his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in 

golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on 

aU the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, 

passed in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we near 

the copses ring. 
And her whisper thronged my pulses with 

the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch 
the stately ships. 

And our spirits rushed together at the touch- 
ing of the lips. 

my cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, 
mine no more ! 

the dreary, di-eary moorland ! the bar- 
ren, barren shore ! 



802 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all 

songs have sung — 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a 

shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — ^having known 

me; to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower 

heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level 

day by day, 
"What is fine within thee growing coarse to 

sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art 

mated with a clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have 

weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall 

have spent its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer 

than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy — ^think not 

they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him ; it is thy duty — ^kiss him ; take 

his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is 

overwrought — 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him 

with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 

understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, though I 

slew thee with my hands. 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from 

the heart's disgrace, 
Kolled in one another's arms, and silent in a 

last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 

the strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from 

the living truth ! 



Cursed be the sickly forms that err from 

honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened 

forehead of the fool ! 

Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — ^Hadst 
thou less unworthy proved, 

Would to God — for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which 

bears but bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my 

heart be at the root. 

Never! though my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many-wintered crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records 

of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as 

I knew her, kind ? 

I remember one that perished ; sweetly did 

she speak and move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at 

was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for 

the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly ; love is love 

for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is 
truth the poet sings. 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- 
bering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest 

thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the 

rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art 

staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 

shadows rise and fall. 



LOOKSLEY HALL. 



303 



Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing 

to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the 

tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whis- 
pered by the phantom years. 

And a song from out the distance in the ring- 
ing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 

kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee 

to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a 

tender voice will cry; 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain 

thj- trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest 

rival brings thee rest — 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from 

the mother's breast. 

O, the child, too, clothes the father with a 

dearness not his due ; 
Half is thine, and half is his — ^it will be 

worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee, old and formal, fitted to thy pet- 
ty part, 

"With a little hoard of maxims preaching down 
a daughter's heart : 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — 

she herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suffered." — ^Perish in 

thy self-contempt ! 
• 
Overlive it — Slower yet — be happy! wherefore 

should I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither 

by despair. 

"What is that which I should turn to, lighting 

upon days like these ? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens 

but to golden keys. 



Every gate is tlironged with suitors; all the 

markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy: what is that 

which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the 

foeman's ground, 
When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the 

winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt 

that honor feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at 

each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that 
earlier page. 

Hide me from my deep emotion, thou won- 
drous Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 

before the strife, 
"When I heard my days before me, and the 

tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the 
coming years would yield — 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves 
his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway near 

and nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring 

like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 

before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among 

the throngs of men — 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 

reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the 

things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye 
could see — 

Saw the vision of the world, and all the won- 
der that would be — 



804 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies 

of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down 

with costly bales — 



Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 

there rained a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in 

the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the 

south- wind rushing warm, 
"With the standards of the peoples plunging 

through the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and 

the battle-flags were furled 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of 

the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a 

fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in 

universal law. 

So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping 

through me, left me dry. 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me 

with the jaundiced eye — 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here 

are out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping 

on from point to point ; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, 

creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a 

slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increas- 
ing purpose runs. 

And the thoughts of men are widened with 
the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of 

his youthful joys. 
Though the deep heart of existence beat for 

ever like a boy's ? 



Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I 

linger on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is 

more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 

he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience moving toward the 

stillness of his rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sounding 
on the bugle horn — 

They to whom my foolish passion were a tar- 
get for their scorn ,* 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 

mouldered string ? 
I am shamed through all my nature to have 

loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness I 
woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 

Nature made them blinder motions bounded 
in a shallower brain ; 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- 
sions, matched with mine. 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 
unto wine — 

Here at least, where Nature sickens, nothing. 

Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 

began to beat ! 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, 

evil-starred ; 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish 
uncle's ward. 

# 
Or to burst all links of habit — ^there to wan- 
der far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways 
of the day — 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons 

and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 

knots of Paradise. 



OKPHEUS TO BEASTS. 



305 



Never comes the trader, never floats an Eu- 
ropean flag — 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, droops 
the trailer from the crag — 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs 

the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 

spheres of sea. 

There, methinks, would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind — 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall 
have scope and breathing-space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear 
my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, 

and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl 

their lances in the sun 

"Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the 
rainbows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over mis- 
erable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know 

my words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than 

the Christian child. 

I to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of 

our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 

with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — ^what to me 

were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files 

of time^ 

I that rather held it better men should perish 

one by one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like 

Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, 

forward let us range; 
Let the great world spin forever down the 

ringing grooves of change. 
20 



Through the shadow of the globe we sweep 

into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 

Cathay. 

Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me 

as when life begun — 
Kift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the 

lightnings, weigh the sun — 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 

hath not set ; 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all 

my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for 

me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening 

over heath and holt. 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast 

a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, 

or fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, 

and I go. 

Alfred Texnyson. 



OEPHEUS TO BEASTS. 

Heee, here, O here, Eurydice — 

Here was she slain — 
Her soul 'stilled through a vein* 

The gods knew less 
That time divinity. 

Than ev'n, ev'n these 

Of brutishness. 

could you view the melody 

Of every grace. 
And music of her face, 

You 'd drop a tear ; 
Seeing more harmony 

In her bright eye, 

Than now you hear. 

EiCHAED Lovelace. 



306 POEMS OF LOVE. 




And the woodland echo rings 


THAT 'TWERE POSSIBLE. 


In a moment we shall meet ; 




She is singing in the meadow, 


I. 


And the rivulet at her feet 


THAT 'twere possible 


Ripples on in light and shadow 


After long grief and pain 


To the ballad that she sings. 


To find the arms of my true love 




Round me once again ! 


vn. 




Do I hear her sing as of old. 


n. 


My bird with the shining head. 


When I was wont to meet her 


My own dove with the tender eye ? 


In the silent woody places 


But there rings on a sudden a passionate 


Of the land that gave me birth, 


cry- 


We stood tranced in long embraces 


There is some one dying or dead ; 


Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 


And a sullen thunder is rolled ; 


Than anything on earth. 


For a tumult shakes the city. 




And I wake— my dream is fled ; 


m. 


In the shuddering dawn, behold, 


A shadow flits before me, 


Without knowledge, without pity. 


Not thou, but like to thee ; 


By the curtains of my bed 


Ah Christ, that it were possible 


That abiding phantom cold! 


For one short hour to see 




The souls we loved, that they might teU us 


VIII. 


What and where they be ! 


Get thee hence, nor come again ! 




Mix not memory with doubt, 


IV. 


Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 


It leads me forth at evening, 


Pass and cease to move about I 


It lightly winds and steals 


'Tis the blot upon the brain 


In a cold white robe before me. 


That will show itself without. 


When all my spirit reels 




. At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 


IX. 


And the roaring of the wheels. 


Then I rise; the eave-drops fall. 




And the yellow vapors choke 


V. 


The great city sounding wide ; 


Half the night I waste in sighs. 


The day comes— a dull red ball 


Half in dreams I sorrow after 


Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 


The delight of early skies ; 


On the misty river-tide. 


In a wakeful doze I sorrow 




For the hand, the lips, the eyes — 


X. 


For the meeting of the morrow, 


Thro' the hubbub of the market 


The delight of happy laughter, 


I steal, a wasted frame; 


The delight of low replies. 


It crosses here, it crosses there, 




Thro' all that crowd confused and loud 


VI. 


The shadow still the same ; 


'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 


And on my heavy eyelids 


And a dewy splendor falls 


My anguish hangs like shame. 


On the little flower that clings 




To the turrets and the walls ; 


XI. 


'T is a morning pure and sweet, 


Alas for her that met me. 


And the light and shadow fleet ; 


That heard me softly call. 


She is walking in the meadow, 


Came glimmering thro' the laurels 



THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, MARY. 



307 



At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden bj the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say "forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, "take me, sw.eet, 
To the regions of thy rest ? " 

xin. 
But the broad light glares and beats, 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be ; 
And I loathe the squares and streets. 
And the faces that one meets. 
Hearts with no lov.e for me ; 
Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep, 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
Mj whole soul out to thee. 

Alfeed Tenntson. 



Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fak ? 
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant 
(As would my deeds have been) with hourly 

care. 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
For nought but what thy happiness could 

spare. 

Speak! though this soft warm heart, once free 

to hold 

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine. 

Be left more desolate, more di'eary cold 

Than a forsaken bird's-nest, filled with snow 

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ; 

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end 

may know ! 

■William "Woedswoeth. j 



THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, 
MAKY. 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, 
As spring's rath blossoms die ; 

And sadness hath o'ershadowed now 
Thy once bright eye ; 

But look ! on me the prints of grief 
Still deeper lie. 
Farewell I 

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary ; 

Thy step is sad and slow ; 
The morn of gladness hath gone by 

Thou erst did know ; 
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 

For very woe. 

Farewell ! 

It seems as 'twere but yesterday 

We were the happiest twain. 
When murmured sighs and joyous tears. 

Dropping like rain, 
Discoursed my love, and told how loved 

I was again. 

Farewell ! 

'Twas not in cold and measured phrase 

We gave our passion name ; 
Scorning such tedious eloquence, 

Our hearts' fond flame 
And long-imprisoned feelings fast 

In deep sobs came. 
Farewell ! 

Would that our love had been the love 
That merest worldlings know, 

When passion's draught to our doomed lips 
Turns utter woe. 

And our poor dream of happiness 
Vanishes so ! 

Farewell ! 

But in the wreck of all our hopes 
There 's yet some touch of bliss, 

Since fate robs not our wretchedness 
Of this last kiss : 

Despair, and love, and madness meet 
In this, in this, 
farewell ! 

/ 'WlLLIASI MOTHEEWELL. 



808 POEMS OF LOVE. 


WALY, WAT.Y, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 


JEANIE MOKEISON. 


WALT, waly up the bank, 


I've wandered east, I've vvandered west, 


And waly, waly down the brae, 


Through mony a weary way ; 


And waly, waly yon burn side, 


But never, never can forget 


Where I and my love wont to gae. 


The luve o' life's young day ! 




The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 


I leaned my back unto an aik. 


May weel be black gin Yule ; 


I thought it was a trusty tree ; 


But blacker fa' awaits the heart 


But first it bowed, and syne it brak — 


Where first fond luve grows cule. 


Sae my true love did lightly me ! 






dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


waly, waly, but love be bonny, 


The thochts o' bygane years 


A little time while it is new ; 


Still fling their shadows ower my path. 


But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld. 


And blind my een wi' tears : 


And fades away like the morning dew. 


They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 




And sair and sick I pine. 


wherefore should I busk my head ? 


As memory idly summons up 


Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 


The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 


For my true love has me forsook. 




And says he '11 never love me mair. 


'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 




'Twas then we twa did part; 


Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ; 


Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 


The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me ; 


Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 


Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, 


'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 


Since my true love has forsaken me. 


To leir ilk ither lear ; 




And tones and looks and smiles were shed. 


Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 


Eemembered evermair. 


And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 




gentle Death, when wilt thou come ? 


I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 


For of my life I 'm weary. 


When sitting on that bink. 




Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 


'T is not the frost that freezes fell. 


What our wee heads could think. 


Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 


When baith bent deun ower ae braid page, 


'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, 


Wi' ae bulk on our knee, 


But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 


Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 


When we came in by Glasgow town, 


My lesson was in thee. 


We were a comely sight to see ; 


0, mind ye how we hung our heads. 
How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 


My love was clad in the black velvet, 


And I my sell in cramasie. 


Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said 


But had I wist, before I kissed. 


We cleeked thegither hame ? 


That love had been sae ill to win. 


And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 


I 'd locked my heart in a case of gold, 


(The scule then skail't at noon,) 


And pinned it with a silver pin. 


When we ran off to speel the braes, — 




The broomy braes o' June ? 


0, 0, if my young babe were bom, 




And set upon the nurse's knee, 


My head rins round and round about — 


And I my sell were dead and gane, 


My heart flows like a sea, 


And the green grass growin' over me ! 


As ane by ane the thochts rush back 


.Inonymoxts. 


0' scule-time and o' thee. 



MY HEID IS LIKE 


T.O REND, WILLIE. 809 


morn in' life ! mornin' luve ! 


dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


liclitsome days and lang, 


Since we were sindered young 


When hinnied hopes aronnd our hearts 


I 've never seen your face, nor heard 


Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 


The music o' your tongue ; 




But I could hug aU wretchedness, 


0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
The deavin' dinsome toun, 


And happy could I die. 


Did I but ken your heart stiU dreamed 


To wander by the green burnside, 


0' bygane days and me ! 


And hear its waters croon ? 


William Mothbewbll. 


The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 
The flowers burst round our feet. 




• 


And in the gloamin o' the wood 




The throssil whusslit sweet ; 


MY HETD TS LIITR TO KET^, WTLLTT]. 


The throssil whusslit in the wood, 


My held is like to rend, Willie — 


The burn sang to the trees — 


My heart is like to break ; 


And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 


I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie— 


Concerted harmonies ; 


I 'm dyin' for your sake ! 


And on the knowe abune the burn 


0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 


For hours thegither sat 


Your hand on my briest-bane, — 


In the silentness o' joy, till baith 


0, say ye 'H think on me, Willie, 


"Wi' very gladness grat. 


When I am deid and gane ! 


Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


It 's vain to comfort me, Willie — 


Tears trinkled doun your cheek 


Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; 


Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 


But let me rest upon your briest 


Had ony power to speak ! 


To sab and greet my fill. 


That was a time, a blessed time, 


Let me sit on your knee, Willie — 


When hearts were fresh and young, 


Let me shed by your hair, 


When freely gushed all feelings forth, 


And look into the face, Willie, 


TJnsyllabled — unsung ! 


I never sail see mair ! 


I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 


I 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 


Gin I hae been to thee 


For the last time in my life, — 


As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 


A puir heart-broken thing, WiUie, 


As ye hae been to me ? 


A mither, yet nae wife. 


0, tell me gin their music fills 


Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 


Thine ear as it does mine ! 


And press it mair and mair, — 


0, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 


Or it will burst the silken twine, 


Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 


Sae Strang is its despair. 


I've wandered east, I've wandered west. 


0, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, 


I 've borne a weary lot ; 


When we thegither met, — 


But in my wanderings, far or near, 


0, wae 's me for the time, Willie, 


Ye never were forgot. 


That our first tryst was set ! 


The fount that first burst frae this heart 


0, wae 's me for the loanin' green 


Still travels on its way ; 


Where we were wont to gae, — 


And channels deeper, as it rins. 


And wae 's me for the destinie 


The luve o' life's young day. 


That gart me luve thee sae ! 



810 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



0, dinna mind my words, Willie — 

I downa seek to blame ; 
But 0, it 's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, 

And hailin' ower your chin : 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow, and for sin ? 

I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' I see, 
I canna live as I ha'e lived, 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine, — 
And kiss ance mair the white, white 
cheek 

Ye said was red langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie — 

A sair stoun' through my heart ; 
0, hand me up and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! — 

How fast my life-strings break ! — 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk- 
yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid, 
Will sing the morn as merrihe 

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
And this green turf we 're sittin' on, 

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 
Will hap the heart that luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 

But 0, remember me, WiUie, 

On land where'er ye be — 
And O, think on the leal, leal heart, 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And 0, think on the cauld, cauld mools 

That file my yellow hair, — 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 

William Mothee'w^ell. 



THE KOSE AKD THE GAUNTLET. 

Low spake the KJaight to the peasant-girl, — 
" I tell thee sooth, I am belted Earl ; 
Fly with me from this garden small. 
And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall ; 

"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and 

pleasure, 
Joys beyond thy fancy's measure ; 
Here with my sword and horse I stand, 
To bear thee away to my distant land. 

" Take, thou fairest ! this full-blown rose, 
A token of love that as ripely blows." 
With his glove of steel he jjlucked the token. 
But it fell from his gaimtlet crushed and 
broken. 

The maiden exclaimed, — "Thou seest, Sir 
Knight, 

Thy fingers of iron can only smite ; 

And, like the rose thou hast torn and scat- 
tered, 

I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shat- 
tered." 

She trembled and blushed, and her glances 

fell; 
But she turned from the Knight, and said, 

"FareweU!" 
" Not so," he cried, " wiU I lose my prize ; 
I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes." 

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel. 

And he mounted and spurred with furious 

heel; 
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire. 
Who snatched his bow from above the fire. 

Swift from the valley the warrior fled. 
Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped ; 
And the weight that pressed on the fleet- 
foot horse 
Was the living man, and the woman's corse. 

That morning the rose was bright of hue ; 
That morning the maiden was fair to view ; 
But the evening sim its beauty shed 
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. 

John Steeling. 



MAUD MULLER. 



311 



MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Mtjllee, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that 

flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled 

up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter 

draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered 

whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul 

weather. 



And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ancles, bare and brown, 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel-eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay 
And the baby should have a new toy each 
day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the 

poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still : 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
For weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love tune ; 



312 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
WTio lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. 
He watched a bright picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms ; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret 

pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

Li the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with a timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 



A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of Hfe again. 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of Youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these: "It might have 
been ! " 

Ah, weU ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
KoU the stone from its grave away ! 

John Gkeknxeaf Whittiee. 



AULD KOBIN GEAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the 

cows come hame, 
When a' the weary warld to quiet rest are 

gane; 
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my 

ee, 
Unkenned by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps 

by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me 

for his bride ; 
But, saving ae crown piece, he'dnaething else 

beside. 
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed 

to sea ; 
And the crown and the pound, O they were 

baith for me ! 

Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and 

a day, 
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown 

away; 
My mother she feU sick — my Jamie was at 

sea — 
And Auld Robin Gray, O ! he came a-court- 

ing me. 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



318 



My father cou'dna work — ^my mother cou'dna 

spin; 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I 

cou'dna win ; 
Auld Eob maintained them baith, and, wi' 

tears in his ee. 
Said, " Jenny, ! for their sakes, will you 



My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie 

back; 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 

wrack ; 
His ship it was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie 

dee? 
Or, wherefore am I spared to cry out, "Woe 

is me! 

My father argued sair— my mother didna 



But she looked in my face till my heart was 

like to break ; 
They gied him my hand, but my heart was 

iu the sea ; 
And so Auld Eobin Gray, he was gudeman 

to me. 

I hadna beenhis wife, a week but only four. 
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my 

door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I cou'dna think it 

he, ♦ > 

Till he said, "I'm come hame, my love, to 

marry thee ! " 

sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; 
Ae kiss we took, nae mair — I bade him gang 

awa. 

1 wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to 

dee; 
For O, I am but young to cry out. Woe is 
me! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to 

spin, 
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a 

sin.; 
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be. 
For Auld Eobin Gray, O! he is sae kiad 

to me. 

Lady Aitnb Baenabd. 



BEETHA m THE LANE. 

Put the broidery-frame away, 

For my sewing is all done ! 
The last thread is used to-day. 

And I need not join it on. 

Though the clock stands at the noon, 

I am weary ! I have sewn, 

Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 

Sister, help me to the bed. 
And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 

Do not shrink nor be afraid. 
Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
No one standeth in the street! — 
By God's love I go to meet. 
Love I thee with love complete. 

Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
These two hands, that I may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin. 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'T is a fair, fair face, in sooth — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth ! 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze 

That the lashes, hung- with tears. 
Grow too heavy to upraise ? 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such — 
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much 

Have I not been nigh a mother 
To thy sweetness — ^tell me, dear 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year ; 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said, with accents undefiled, 
" Child, be mother to this child ! " 

Mother, mother, up in heaven. 
Stand up on the jasper sea, 

And be witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me ; — 
Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned, 
Love that left me with a wound. 
Life itself, that turned around ! 



314 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Mother, mother, thou art kind, 


And so, wrapt in musings fond. 


Thou art standing in the room, — 


Issued (past the wayside pond) 


In a molten glory shrined. 


On the meadow-lands beyond. 


That rays off into the gloom ! 




But thy smile is bright and bleak, 


I sat down beneath the beech 


Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 


Which leans over to the lane. 


I sob in it, and grow weak. 


And the far sound of your speech 




Did not promise any pain ; 


Ghostly mother, keep aloof 


And I blessed you full and free, 


One hour longer from my soul — 


With a smile stooped tenderly 


For I still am thinking of 


O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 


Earth's warm-beating joy and dole I 




On my finger is a ring 


But the sound grew into word 


"Which I still see glittering, 


As the speakers drew more near — 


When the night hides every thing. 


Sweet, forgive me that I heard 




What you wished me not to hear. 


Little sister, thou art pale ! 


Do not weep so — do not shake — 


Ah, I have a wandering brain — 


Oh, — I heard thee, Bertha, make 


But I lose that fever-bale, 


Good true answers for my sake. 


And my thoughts grow calm again. 




Lean down closer — closer still I 


Yes, and he too ! let him stand 


I have words thine ear to fill, — 


In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. 


And would kiss thee at my will. 


Could he help it, if my hand 


Dear, I heard thee In the spring, 

Thee and Eobert — through the trees, — 

"When we all went gathering 
Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 


He had claimed with hasty claim ! 
That was wrong perhaps — but then 
Such things be — and wiU, again ! 
Women cannot judge for men. 


Do not start so ! think instead 




How the sunshine overhead 


Had he seen thee, when he sworo 


Seemed to trickle through the shade. 


He would love but me alone ? 
Thou wert Absent — sent before 


What a day it was, that day ! 


To our Hn in Sidmouth town. 


Hills and vales did openly 


WThen he saw thee, who art best 


Seem to heave and throb away, 


Past compare, and loveliest. 


At the sight of the great sky ; 


He but judged thee as the rest. 


And the silence, as it stood 




In the glory's golden flood, 


Could we blame him with grave words. 


Audibly did bud— and bud! 


Thou and I, dear, if we might ? 




Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 


Through the winding hedgerows green. 


Flying straightway to the light; 


How we wandered, I and you, — 


Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 


With the bowery tops shut in. 


Up the street ! Is none without ? 


And the gates that showed the view — 


How the poplar swings about ! 


How we talked there ! thrushes soft 




Sang our pauses out, — or oft 


And that hour — ^beneath the beech — 


Bleatings took them, from the croft. 


When I listened in a dream. 


O J 


And he said, in his deep speech. 


Till the pleasure, grown too strong. 


That he owed me all esteem — 


Left me muter evermore ; 


Each word swam in on my brain 


And, the winding road being long. 


With a dim, dilating pain. 


I walked out of sight, before ; 


Till it burst with that last strain— 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



316 



T fell flooded with a dark, 
In the silence of a swoon — 

When I rose, still, Gold and stark, 
There was night — I saw the moon : 
And the stars, each in its place. 
And the May-blooms on the grass, 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And I walked as if apart 

From myself when I could stand — 

And I pitied my own heart, 
As if I held it in my hand — 
Somewhat coldly — with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence, 
And a " Poor thing " negligence. 

And I answered coldly too. 
When yon met me at the door ; 

And I only heard the dew 
Dripping from me to the floor ; 
And the flowers I bade you see. 
Were too withered for the bee — 
As my life, henceforth, for me. 

Do not weep so — d^ar — ^lieart-warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 

I speak wild — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good- 
He esteemed me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Then I always was too grave — 
Liked the saddest ballads sung — 

With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces, who die young. 
I had died, dear, aU the same — 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unhke each other. 

Thou and I ; that none could guess 

We were children of one mother. 
But for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold, 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 

I am pale as crocus grows 
Close beside a rose-tree's root ! 

Whosoe'er would reach the rose. 
Treads the crocus underfoot — 



I, like May-bloom on thorn tree — 
Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
Fit, that I be plucked for thee. 

Yet who plucks me ? — ^no one mourns — 
I have lived my season out — 

And now die of my own thorns 
Which I could not live without. 
Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
Keep the candles in my sight. 

Are there footsteps at the door ? 
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay ? 

Some one might be waiting for 
Some last word that I might say. 
Fay ? So best ! — So angels would 
Stand off clear from deathly road — 
Kot to cross the sight of God. 

Colder grow my hands and feet — 
When I wear the shroud I made, 

Let the folds He straight and neat. 
And the rosemary be spread — 
That if any friend should come, 
(To see thee, sweet !) all the room 
May be lifted out of gloom. 

And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little ring. 

Which at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see ghttering. 
Let me wear it out of sight. 
In the grave — where it will light 
All the dark up, day and night. 

On that grave, drop not a tear! 

Else, though fathom-deep the place, 
Through the woollen shroud I wear 

I shall feel it on my face. 

Eather smile there, blessed one, 

Thinking of me in the sun — 

Or forget me — smiling on 1 

Art thou near me ? nearer ? so ! 
Kiss me close upon the eyes, 

That the earthly light may go 
Sweetly as it used to rise — 
When I watched the morning gray 
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
He was sure to come that day. 



816 



POEMS OF LOVE, 



So — no more vain words be said I 
Tlie hosannas nearer roll — 

Mother, smile now on thy dead — 
I am death-strong in my soul ! 
Mystic Dove alit on cross, 
Guide the poor bird of the snows 
Through the snow- wind above loss ! 

Jesus, Victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation — 

Cleanse my love in its self-spending, 
And absorb the poor libation ! 
"Wind my thread of life up higher, 
Tip through angels' hands of fire ! — 
I aspire while I expire ! — 

Elizabeth Bakbett BEOWimTG. 



THEK 



I GIVE thee treasures hour by hour, 
That old-time princes asked in vain. 
And pined for in their useless power, 
Or died of passion's eager pain. 

I give thee love as God gives light, 
Aside from merit, or from prayer, 
Eejoicing in its own delight, 
And freer than the lavish air. 

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung 
On golden threads of hope and fear ; 
And tenderer thoughts than ever hung 
In a sad angel's pitying tear. 

As earth pours freely to the sea 
Her thousand streams of wealth untold, 
So flows my silent life to thee. 
Glad that its very sands are gold. 

What care I for thy carelessness? 
I give from depths that overflow. 
Regardless that their power to bless 
Thy spirit cannot sound or know. 

Far lingering on a distant dawn 
My triumph shines, more sweet than late ; 
"When from these mortal mists withdrawn, 
Thy heart shall know me — I can wait. 

EosB Teeet. 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 

Theee's a palace in Florence, the world 

knows well. 
And a statue watches it from the square ; 
And this story of both do the townsmen tell 

Ages ago, a lady there, 

At the furthest window facing the east. 

Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?" 

The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased ; 
She leaned forth, one on either hand ; 
They saw how the blush of the bride in- 
creased — 

They felt by its beats her heart expand — 
As one at each ear and both in a breath 
Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand." 

That self-same instant, underneath. 
The Duke rode past in his idle way, . 
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. 

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay. 

Till he threw his head back— "Who is she?" 

— "A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day." 

Hair in heaps laid heavily 

Over a pale brow spirit-pure, 

Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree. 

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure — 
Which vainly sought to dissemble her eyes 
Of the blackest black our eyes endure. 

And lo ! a blade for a knight's emprise 
Filled the fine empty sheath of a man, — 
The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. 

He looked at her, as a lover can ; 

She looked at him, as one who awakes,-r 

The past was a sleep, and her life began. 

As love so ordered for both their sakes, 

A feast was held that self-same night 

In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. 

(For Via Larga is three-parts light, 

But the Palace overshadows one, 

Because of a crime which may God requite ! 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 



317 



To Florence and God the wrong was done, 
Through the first republic's murder there 
Bj Cosimo and his cursed son.) 

The Duke (with the statue's face in the 

square) 
Turned, in the midst of his multitude, 
At the bright approach of the bridal pair. 

Face to face the lovers stood 
A single minute and no more, 
"While the bridegroom bent as a man sub- 
dued — 

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor — 
For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, 
As the courtly custom was of yore. 

In a minute can lovers exchange a word ? 
If a word did pass, which I do not think, 
Only one out of the thousand heard. 

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink. 
He and his bride were alone at last 
In a bed-chamber by a taper's blink. 

Calmly he said that her lot was cast, 

That the door she had passed was shut on her 

Till the final catafalk repassed. 

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir. 
Through a certain window facing the east 
She might watch like a convent's chronicler. 

Since passing the door might lead to a feast. 
And a feast might lead to so much beside. 
He, of many evils, chose the least. 

" Freely I choose, too," said the bride ; 
"Your window and its world suffice." 
So replied the tongue, while the heart re- 
plied — 

" If I spend the night with that devil twice. 
May his window serve as my loop of heU 
Whence a damned soul looks on Paradise I 

" I fly to the Duke who loves me well. 
Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow 
Ere I count another ave-bell. 



" 'T is only the coat of a page to borrow, 
And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim, 
And I save my soul — but not to-morrow "- 

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim)- 
" My father tarries to bless my state : 
I must keep it one day more for him. 

"Is one day more so long to wait ? 
Moreover the Duke rides past, I know — 
We shaU see each other, sure as fate." 



She turned on her side and slept. Just so ! 
So we resolve on a thing and sleep — 
So did the lady, ages ago. 

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap 
As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove 
To body or soul, I will drain it deep." 

And on the morrow, bold with love, 

He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call. 

As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 

And smiled, " 'T was a very funeral 
Your lady wiU think, this feast of ours, — 
A shame to efface, whate'er befall ! 

"What if we break from the Arno bowers, 
And let Petraja, cool and green. 
Cure last night's fault with this morning's 
flowers?" 

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen 
On his steady brow and quiet mouth. 
Said, " Too much favor for me so mean ! 

" Alas ! my lady leaves the south. 

Each wind that comes from the Apennine 

Is a menace to her tender youth. 

" Ko way exists, the wise opine, 

If she quits her palace twice this year. 

To avert the flower of life's decline." 



Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear. 
Moreover Petraja is cold this spring — 
Be our feast to-night as usual here I " 



818 



POEMS OF LOYE. 



And then to himself — "Which night shall 

bring 
Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool — 
Or I am the fool, and thou art his king ! 

"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor 

cool — 
For to-night the Envoy arrives from France, 
"Whose heart I imlock with thyself, my tool. 

" I need thee still and might miss perchance. 

To-day is not wholly lost, beside. 

With its hope of my lady's countenance — 

"For I ride — ^what should I do but ride ? 

And passing her palace, if I list. 

May glance at its window — well betide ! " 

So said, so done ; nor the lady missed 
One ray that broke from the ardent brow, 
Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. 

Be sure that each renewed the vow — 
No morrow's sun should arise and set 
And leave them then as it left them now. 

But next day passed, and next day yet. 
With still fresh cause to wait one more 
Ere each leaped over the parapet. 

And still, as love's brief morning wore. 
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh. 
They found love not as it seemed before. 

They thought it would work infallibly. 
But not in despite of heaven and earth — 
The rose would blow when the storm passed 
by. 

Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth 
By winter's fruits that supplant the rose. 
The world and its ways have a certain worth; 

And to press a point while these oppose 
Were a simple policy — best wait. 
And lose no friends and gain no foes. 

Meanwhile, worse fates than a lover's fate 
Who daily may ride, and lean, and look. 
Where his lady watches behind the grate ! 



And she — she watched the square like a book 
Holding one picture and only one, 
Which daily to find she undertook. 

When the picture was reached the book was 

done. 
And she turned from it all night to scheme 
Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 

Weeks grew months, years — gleam by gleam 
The glory dropped from youth and love. 
And both perceived they had dreamed a 
dream. 

Which hovered as dreams do, still above, — 
But who can take a dream for truth? 
0, hide our eyes from the next remove ! 

One day as the lady saw her youth 
Depart, and the silver thread that streaked 
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth. 

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,— 
And wondered who the woman was. 
So hoUow-eyed and haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting her silent in the glass — 
" Summon here," she suddenly said, 
" Before the rest of my old self pass, 

"Him, the carver, a hand to aid. 

Who moulds the clay no love will change. 

And fixes a beauty never to fade. 

" Let Eobbia's craft, so apt and strange, 
Arrest the remains of young and fair, 
And rivet them while the seasons range. 

" Make me a face on the window there 
Waiting as ever, mute the while. 
My love to pass below in the square I 

"And let me think that it may beguile 
Dreary days which the dead must spend 
Down in their darkness under the aisle. 



" To say, — ' What matters at the end ? 
I did no more while my heart was warm. 
Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.' 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 



319 



" Where is the use of the lip's red charm, 
The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, 
And the blood that blues the inside arm — 

" Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, 
The earthly gift to an end divine ? 
A lady of clay is as good, I trow." 

But long ere Eobbia's cornice, fine 

"With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, 

"Was set where now is the empty shrine — 

(With, leaning out of a bright blue space, 
As a ghost might from a chink of sky, 
The passionate pale lady's face — 

Eyeing ever with earnest eye, 

And quick-turned neck at its breathless 

stretch. 
Some one who ever passes by — ) 

The Duke sighed like the simplest wretch 
In Florence : "So, my dream escapes ! 
Will its record stay ? " And he bade them 
fetch 

Some subtle fashioner of shapes — 
"Can the soul, the will, die out of a man 
Ere his body find the grave that gapes ? 

"John of Douay shall work my plan. 
Mould me on horseback here aloft. 
Alive — (the subtle artisan ! ) 

"In the very square I cross so oft ! 
That men may admire, when future suns 
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft — 

" While the mouth and the brow are brave 

in bronze — 
Admire and say, ' When he was alive, 
How he would take his pleasure once ! ' 

" And it shall go hard but I contrive 

To listen meanwhile and laugh in my tomb 

At indolence which aspires to strive." 



So ! while these wait .the trump of doom. 
How do their spirits pass, I wonder, 
Nights and days in the narrow room ? 



Still, I suppose, 'they sit and ponder 
What a gift life was, ages ago. 
Six steps out of the chapel yonder. 

Surely they see not God, I know, 

Nor aU that chivalry of His, 

The soldier-saints who, row on row. 

Burn apward each to his point of bliss — 

Since, the end of life being manifest, 

He had cut his way thro' the world to this. 

I hear your reproach — "But delay was best. 
For their end was a crime ! " — 0, a crime 

will do 
As well, I reply, to serve for a test. 

As a virtue golden through and through. 

Sufficient to vindicate itself 

And prove its worth at a moment's view. 

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf? 
Where a button goes, 't were an epigram 
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. 

The true has no value beyond the sham. 
As weU the counter as coin, I submit. 
When your table 's a hat, and your prize, a 
dram. 

Stake your counter as boldly every whit, 

Venture as truly, use the same skill, 

Do your best, whether winning or losing it. 

If you choose to play — ^is my principle ! 
Let a man contend to the uttermost 
For his life's set prize, be it what it will ! 

The counter our lovers staked was lost 

As surely as if it were lawful coin ; 

And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost 

Was the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, 
Though the end in sight was a crime, I say. 
You of the virtue, (we issue join) 
How strive you ? De fe, fabula I 

KOBEET BEOWinK&. 



320 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



ALLAN PERCY. 

It was a beauteous lady ricMy dressed ; 

Around her neck are chains of jewels rare ; 
A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast, 
And a young child is softly slumbering 
there. 
In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun. 
She bears him onward to the greenwood 
tree; 
Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless 
one. 
The place where an Earl's son should 
cradled be ? 

LuUaby! 

Though a proud Earl be father to my child, 
Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall 
lie; 
Let the winds lull him with their murmurs 
wild, 
And toss the green boughs upward to the 
sky. 
"Well knows that Earl how long my spirit 
pined. 
I loved a forester, glad, bold, and free ; 
And had I wedded as my heart inclined, 
My child were cradled 'neath the green- 
wood tree. 

Lullaby ! 

Slumber thou still, my innocent — mine 
own, 
While I call back the dreams of other 
days. 
In the deep forest I feel less alone 

Than when those palace splendors mock 
my gaze. 
Fear not! my arm shall bear thee safely 
back ; 
I need no squire, no page with bended 
knee, 
To bear my baby through the wildwood 
track, 
"Where Allan Percy used to roam with 
me. 

Lullaby I 

Here I can sit; and while the fresh wind 
blows, 
"Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair, 
Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose, 



I can dream dreams that comfort my de- 
spair ; 
I can make visions of a different home. 
Such as we hoped in other days might 
be; 
There no proud Earl's unwelcome footsteps 
come — 
There, AUan Percy, I am safe with thee ! 
LuUaby ! 

Thou art mine own— I 'U bear thee where I 
list, 
Far from the duU proud tower and donjon 
keep; 
From my long hair the pearl chains I 'U un- 
twist. 
And with a peasant's heart sit down and 
weep. 
Thy glittering broidered robe, my precious 
one, 
Changed for a simpler covering shall be ; 
And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son. 
And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with 

me. 

Lullaby ! 

Oaeolinb Nobton. 



CHANGES. 

"Whom first we love, you know, we seldom 

wed. 
Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was 

dead. 
And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear ; 
Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 
God help us all ! who need, indeed. His care. 
And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep. 

My little boy begins to babble now 
Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 
He has his father's eager eyes, I know ; 
And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee. 
And I can feel his light breath come and go, 
I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
"Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago. 



INDIFFERENCE. 



321 



Who miglit have been ... ah, what I dare 

not think ! 
We are all changed. God judges for ns best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 
And trust in heaven humbly for the rest. 

But blame us women not, if some appear 
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. 
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard 

to bear. 
Who knows the past ? and who can judge us 

right? 

Ah, were we judged by what we might have 

been. 
And not by what we are — too apt to fall ! 
My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall 

know all ! 

EOBEET BULWEB LtTTON. 



EXCUSE. 

I TOO have suffered. Yet I know 
She is not cold, though she seems so ; 
She is not cold, she is not light ; 
But our ignoble souls lack might. 

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
While we for hopeless passion die ; 
Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 
Were but men nobler than they are. 

Eagerly once her gracious ken 
Was turned upon the sons of men ; 
But light the serious visage grew — 
She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. 

Our petty souls, our strutting wits. 
Our labored puny passion-fits — 
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 

Yet oh, that Fate would let her see 
One of some worthier race than we — 
One for whose sake she once might prove 
How deeply she who scorns can love. 

His eyes be like the starry lights — 
His voice like sounds of summer nights — 
In all his lovely mien let pierce 
The magic of the universe ! 
21 



And she to hun will reach her hand, 
And gazing in his eyes will stand. 
And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
And cry — ^Long, long I've looked for thee ! 

Then wiU she weep — with smiles, till then, 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 

Matthew Aenold. 



rNTDIFFEEENCE. 

1 MUST not say that thou wert true, 
Yet let me say that thou wert fair. 
And they that lovely face who view. 
They will not ask if truth be there. 

Truth — what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts 
Wounded by men, by Fortune tried, 
Outwearied with their lonely parts, 
Yow to beat henceforth side by side. 

The world to them was stern and drear ; 
Their lot was but to weep and moan. 
Ah, let them keep their faith sincere. 
For neither could subsist alone ! 

But souls whom some benignant breath 
Has charmed at bu'th from gloom and care, 
These ask no love — ^these plight no faith. 
For they are happy as they are. 

The world to them may homage make. 
And garlands for their forehead weave ; 
And what the world can give, they take — 
But they bring more than they receive. 

They smile upon the world ; their ears 
To one demand alone are coy. 
They wiU not give us love and tears — 
They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. 

It was not love that heaved thy breast, 
Fair child ! it was the bliss within. 
Adieu ! and say that one, at least. 
Was just to what he did not win. 

Matthew Aenolp. 



322 POEMS OF LOVE. 


LOVE. 


FLOEENCE YANE. 


He stood beside a cottage lone, 


I LOVED thee long and dearly, 


And listened to a lute, 


Florence Yane ; 


One summer eve, when the breeze was gone, 


Ky life's bright dream and early 


And the nightingale was mute. 


Hath come again ; 


The moon was watching on the hill ; 


I renew, in my fond vision, 


The stream was staid, and the maples still, 


My heart's dear pain — 


To hear a lover's suit, 


My hopes, and thy derision, 


That — half a vow, and half a prayer — 


Florence Yane. 


Spoke less of hope than of despair ; 




And rose into the calm, soft air, 


The ruin, lone and hoary, 


As sweet and low 


The ruin old 


As he had heard — 0, woe ! 0, woe! 


Where thou didst hark my story, 


The flutes of angels, long ago ! 


At even told — 




That spot — ^the hues Elysian 


" By every hope that earthward clings. 


Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 


By faith that mounts on angel- wings. 


By dreams that make night-shadows bright. 


Florence Yane. 


And truths that turn our day to night. 




By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear. 


Thou wast lovelier than the roses 


By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year. 


In their prime ; 


By all the strains that fancy sings, 


Thy voice excelled the closes 


And pangs that time so surely brings, — 


Of sweetest rhyme ; 


For joy or grief, for hope or fear. 


Thy heart was as a river 


For all hereafter as for here, 


Without a main. 


In peace or strife, in storm or shine, 


Would I had loved thee never. 


My soul is wedded unto thine ! " 


Florence Yane. 


And for its soft and sole reply. 


But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 


A murmur, and a sweet, low sigh. 

But not a spoken word ; 
And yet they made the waters start 

Into his eyes who heard. 


Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas, the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain. 
To quicken love's pale ember, 


For they told of a most loving heart. 
In a voice like that of a bird — 


Of a heart that loved, though it loved in 


Florence Yane. 


vain, — 
A grieving, and yet not a pain : 


The lilies of the valley 




By young graves weep ; 




The daisies love to dally 


A love that took an early root. 


Where maidens sleep. 


And had an early doom — 


May their bloom, in beauty vying. 


Like trees that never grow to fruit. 


Never wane 


And early shed their bloom ; 


Where thine earthly part is lying. 


Of vanished hopes and happy smiles, 


Florence Yane ! 


All lost for evermore — 


Philip P. Cookb. 


Like ships that sailed for sunny isles. 
But never came to shore 1 




* 


Anoktmoub. 





LOVE'S HISTORY. 



323 



ANNABEL LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived, whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than 
love, 
I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came, 

And bore her away from me. 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as aU men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night. 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the 
love 

Of those who were older than we. 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing 
me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright 
eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 



And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the 

side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my 
bride, 
In her sepulchre there by the sea. 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgae Allan Poe. 



LOVE'S HISTORY. 

By sylvan waves that westward flow 
A hare-bell bent its beauty low, 
With slender waist and modest brow. 

Amidst the shades descending. 
A star looked from the paler sky — 
The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh 
Forgot that love may look too high. 

And sorrow without ending. 

By casement hid, the flowers among, 
A maiden leaned and listened long ; 
It was the hour of love and song. 

And early night-birds calling; 
A barque across the river drew ; — 
The rose was glowing through and through 
The maiden's cheek of trembling hue. 

Amidst the twilight falling. 

She saw no star, she saw no flower — 
Her heart expanded to the hour ; 
She recked not of her lowly dower 

Amidst the shades descending. 
With love thus fixed upon a height 
That seemed so beauteous to the sight, 
How could she think of wrong and blight. 

And sorrow without ending. 

The hare-bell drooped beneath the dew. 
And closed its eye of tender blue ; 
No sun could e'er its life renew. 

Nor star, in music calhng. 
The autumn leaves were early shed ; 
But earlier on her cottage bed 
The maiden's loving heart lay dead, 

Amidst the twilight falhng ! 

Chaeles Swain. 



824 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut — no light may pass, 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so 
wide. 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals — ^naught beside ? 

"No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
few; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say, 
In the lower earth — in the years long still — 

That body and soul so pure and gay; 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's 
red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 



I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Eansacked the ages, spoiled the chmes ; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, aU the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile 
And the red young mouth and the hair's 
young gold. 
So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 
You wiU wake, and remember, and under- 
stand. 

EOBEET BbOWNING. 



HIGHLAND MAEY. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes 

And there the langest tarry ! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk ! 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ? 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder; 
But, ! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



LAODAMIA. 



825 



O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And moiild'ring now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. • 

EOBEET BlTENS. 



TO MARY m HEAYEIT. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past — 
Thy image at our last embrace ! 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, 
green; 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
The birds sang love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

• Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but th' impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 

EOBEET BXJENS. 



LAODAMIA. 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Yows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 

And from th' infernal gods, 'mid shades for- 
lorn 

Of night, my slaughtered lord have I re- 
quired : 

Celestial pity I again implore ; — 

Eestore him to my sight— great Jove, restore!" 



So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts 

her hands ; 
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 
Her count'nance brightens and her eye ex- 
pands ; 
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature 

grows ; 
And she expects the issue in repose. 



O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — joy ! 
What doth she look on ? — whom doth she be- 
hold? 
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he! 
And a god leads him— winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with 

his wand 
That calms all fear : ' ' Such grace hath crowned 

thy prayer, 
Laodamia I that at Jove's command 
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air ; 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours* 

space ; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord 

to clasp ; 
Again that consummation she essayed ; 
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 
As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The phantom parts — but parts to reunite, 
And reassume his place before her sight. 



326 



POEMS OP LOVE. 



" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice : 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
Speak! and the floor thou tread'st on will re- 
joice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : — spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

"Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold 
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan 

strand 
Should die; but me the threat could not 

withhold — 
A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
A selfrdevoted chief, by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of heroes! bravest, noblest, best! 
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
Which then, when tens of thousands were 

deprest 
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — ^here thou 

art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
And he whose power restores thee hath de- 
creed 
Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave ; 
Ptedundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

"JiTo spectre greets me, — ^no vain shadow 

this; 
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial 

kiss 
To me, this day a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven ; the conscious Parcse 

threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 



" This visage tells thee that my doom is past; 
IsTor should the change be mourned, even if 

the joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains ; 
Calm pleasures there abide — ^majestic pains. 

" Be taught, faithful consort, to control 
Rebelhous passion : for the gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah, wherefore ?— Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal 

bloom ? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. 
And jEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

" The gods to us are merciful, and they 
Yet further may relent ; for mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the 

sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star. 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
And though his favorite seat be feeble wo- 
man's breast. 

" But if thou goest, I follow—" " Peace ! " 

he said; — 
She looked upon him and was calmed and 

cheered ; 
The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared 
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
Brought from a pensive, though a happy 

place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal^ 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 



LAODAMIA. 



827 



Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the bright- 
est day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the soul shall enter which- hath 

earned 
That privilege by virtue. — "111," said he, 
" The end of man's existence I discerned, 
"Who from ignoble games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain de- 
light, 
While tears were thy best pastime, day and 
night; 

"And while my youthful peers before my 

eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
tained, 
"What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

"The wished-for wind was given; — I then 

revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan 

sand. 

"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! 
On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life — 
The paths which we had trod — these foun- 
tains, flowers — 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
'Behold they tremble ! — ^haughty their array. 
Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' 
In soul I swept th' indignity away. 
Old frailties then recurred ; — but lofty 

thought. 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 



"And thou, thcrugh strong in love, art all 
too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow ; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest reunion in the shades below. 

Th' invisible world with thee hath sympa- 
thized : 

Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 

"Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, — 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given. 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven, — 
That self might be annulled — ^her bondage 

prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 
Round the dear shade she would have 

clung, — 't is vain ; 
The hours are past, — ^too brief had they been 

years ; 
And him no mortal effort can detain. 
Swift, toward the realms that know not 

earthly day. 
He through the portal takes his silent way. 
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she 



Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime, 
By the just gods, whom no weak pity moved. 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— ^Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died; 
And ever, when such stature they had gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 
The trees' taU summits withered at the sight ; 
A constant interchange of growth and blight! 
William Wordswobth. 



328 POEMS OF LOVE. 






Above her lieth spread a tomb 


LOVE'S LAST JVIESSAGES. 


Of gold and sapphires blue : 




The gold doth shew her blessedness, 


Meeet, merry little strsam, 


The sapphires mark her true ; 


Tell me, hast thou seen my dear 2 


For blessedness and truth in her 


I left him with an azure dream, 


Were livelily portrayed. 


Calmly sleeping on his bier — 


When gracious God with both His hands 


But he has fled! 


Her goodly substance made. 




He framed her in such wondrous wise. 


" I passed him in his church-yard bed — 


She was, to speak without disguise. 


A yew is sighing o'er his head, 


The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 


And grass-roots mingle with his hair." 




What doth he there? 


No more, no more : my heart doth faint 


cruel ! can he lie alone ? 


When I the life recall 


Or in the arms of one more dear? 


Of her, who lived so free from taint. 


Or hides he in the bower of stone, 


So virtuous deemed by all — 


To cause and kiss away my fear ? 


That in herself was so complete, 




I think that she was ta'en 


" He doth not speak, he doth not moan — 


By God to deck His paradise. 


Blind, motionless he lies alone ; 


And with his saints to reign ; 


But, ere the grave-snake fleshed his sting. 


Whom, while on earth, each one did prize 


This one warm tear he bade me bring 


The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 


And lay it at thy feet 


But nought our tears avail, or cries : 


Among the daisies sweet." 


All soon or late in death shall sleep ; 




Nor living wight long time may keep 


Moonlight whisp'rer, summer air 


The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 


Songster of the groves above, 


Chat?le8 Dtjke op OsLEAifS (Frcuch). 


Tell the maiden rose I wear 


Translation of Heney Oakey. 


Whether thou hast seen my love. 
" This night in heaven I saw him lie. 




• 


Discontented with his bliss ; 


THE BURIAI< OF LOVE. 


And on my lips he left this kiss. 




For thee to taste and then to die." 


Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 


Thomas Lovbll Beddoes. 


Sat where a river rolled away. 




With calm, sad brows and raven hair ; 


—♦— 


And one was pale and both were fair. 




Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers un- 


THE FAIREST THING IN MOETAL 


blown; 


EYES. 


Bring forest blooms of name unknown ; 


To make my Lady's obsequies 


Bring budding sprays from wood and wild. 


My love a minster wrought. 


To strew the bier of Love, the child. 


And, in the chantry, service there 


Close softly, fondly, while ye weep. 


Was sung by doleful thought ; 


His eyes, that death may seem like sleep ; 


The tapers were of burning sighs. 


And fold his hands in sign of rest. 


That light and odor gave ; 


His waxen hands, across his breast. 


And sorrows, painted o'er with tears. 




Enlumined her grave ; 


And make his grave where violets hide. 


And round about, in quaintest guise, 


Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, 


Was carved : " Within this tomb there lies 


And blue-birds, in the misty spring, 


The fairest thing in mortal eyes." 


Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 



WINIFREDA. 



;29 



Place near him, as ye lay him low, 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow, 
The silken fillet that around 
His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 

But we shall mourn him long, and miss 

His ready smile, his ready kiss, 

The patter of his little feet, 

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet ; 

And graver looks, serene and high, 
A light of heaven in that young eye : 
All these shall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache — and tears will start. 

The bow, the band, shall fall to dust ; 
The shining arrows waste with rust ; 
And all of Love that earth can claim, 
Be but a memory and a name. 

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, 
A prisoner in this narrow cell ; 
But he whom now we hide from men 
In the dark ground, shall live again — 

Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
With nobler mien and purer sight, 
And in th' eternal glory stand. 
Highest and nearest God's right hand. 

William Citllen Betant. 



LOYE NOT. 

Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly 

flowers — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing ye love may change ; 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, 
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange. 
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing you love may die — 
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; 
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 
Love not ! 



Love not ! oh warning vainly said 
In present hours as in years gone by ; 
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, 
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 
Love not ! 
Oaeoline Noeton. 



WINIFKEDA. 

Away ! let nought to love displeasing, 
My "Winifreda, move your care ; 

Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What tho' no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood ; 

We 'U shine in more substantial honors, 
And to be noble we 'U be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, . 

Will sweetly sound where'er 't is spoke . 
And aU the great ones, they shaU wonder 

How they respect such little folk. 

What though from fortune's lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess ; 

We 'U find within our pittance plenty. 
And be content without excess. 

StiU shaU each returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give; 
For we wiU live a life of reason, 

And that 's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling. 
We 'U hand In hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling. 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures. 
While 'round my knees they fondly clung. 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. 

And when with envy. Time, transported, 
Shall think to rob us of our joys. 

You '11 in your girls again be courted, 
And I 'U go wooing in my boys. 

Anonymous. 



830 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



SONG. 

Gatkee ye rose-buds as ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying ; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun, 

The higher he 's a-getting, 
The sooner will Jiis race be run, 

And nearer he 's to setting. 

The age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer ; 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Time still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time. 
And while ye may, go marry ; 

For having lost but once your prime. 
You may for ever tarry. 

EOBEET HeEEIOK. 



BRIDAL SOKG. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 
"We have borne thee on the road 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming. 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming, 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou has left the joyous feast, 
And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door, 
That the favored youth admits 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear. 
Waiting our soft tread to hear, 
And the music's brisker din 
At the bridegroom's entering in. 
Entering in, a welcome guest. 
To the chamber of his rest. 

Heney Haet Mixman. 



EPITHALAMIOK 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes 
Beene to the ayding others to adorne. 
Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful! 

rymes. 
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne 
To heare theyr names sung in your simple 

lays. 
But joyed in theyr praise ; 
And when ye list your own mishaps to 

mourne, 
Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did 

rayse, 
Your string could soone to sadder tenoi 

turne, 
And teach the woods and waters to lament 
Your doleful dreriment : 
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside ; 
And, having all your heads with girlands 

crowned, 
Helpe me mine owne love's prayses to re- 
sound, 
Ne let the same of any be envide. 
So Orpheus did for his owne bride ; 
So I unto my selfe alone will sing ; 
The woods shall to me answer, and my echo 

ring. 

Early, before the world's light-giving lampe 

His golden beame upon the hils doth spred. 

Having disperst the night's uncheerfuU dampe. 

Doe ye awake ; and with fresh lustyhed 

Go to the bowre of my beloved love, 

My truest turtle dove ; 

Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake. 

And long since ready forth his maske to 

move, 
With his bright torch that flames with many 

a flake. 
And many a bachelor to waite on him. 
In theyr fresh garments trim. 
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her 

dight; 
For loe ! the wished day is come at last. 
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes 

past. 
Pay to her usury of long delight! 
And, whylest she doth her dight, 



EPITHALAMIOIT. 



331 



Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your 
echo ring. 

Bring with you all the nymphes that you can 

heare, 
Both of the rivers and the forests greene, 
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare ; 
All with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. 
And let them also with them bring in hand 
Another gay girland. 
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, 
Bound, true-love-wise, with a blue silk 

riband. 
And let them make great store of bridale 

posies ; 
And let them eke bring store of other flow- 
ers, 
To deck the bridale bowers. 
And let the ground whereas her foot shall 

tread. 
For feare the stones her tender foot should 

wrong, 
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along. 
And diapred lyke the discolored mead. 
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt. 
For she will waken strayt ; 
The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, 
The woods shall to you answer, and your 

echo ring. 

Ye nymphes of Mulla, which with careful! 

heed 
The silver-scaly trouts do tend full well. 
And greedy pikes which used therein to 

feed, 
(Those trouts and pikes all others doe ex- 
cell;) 
And ye, likewise, which keepe the rushy 

lake. 
Where none do fishes take — 
Bynd up the locks the which hang scattered 

light. 
And in his waters, which your mirror make, 
Behold your faces as the christall bright. 
That when you come whereas my love doth 

lie 
No blemish she may spie. 
And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe 

the dore 
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre — 



And the wylde" wolves, which seeke them to 
devoure, 

With your Steele darts doe chace from com- 
ing neare — 

Be also present here. 

To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing. 

That all the woods may answer, and your 
echo ring. 

Wake now, my love, awake ; for it is time : 
The rosy Morne long since left Tithon's bed, 
All ready to her silver coache to clyme ; 
And Phoebus 'gins to shew his glorious hed. 
Hark! how the cheerfull birds do chaunt 

theyr laies. 
And Carroll of love's praise ! 
The merry larke his mattins sings aloft ; 
The thrush replyes; the mavis descant 

playes ; 
The ouzell shrills; the ruddock warbles soft : 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 
To this daye's merriment. 
Ah ! my deare love, why do ye sleepe thus 

long? 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' awayt the comming of your joyous make; 
And hearken to the birds' love-leai'ned song, 
The dewy leaves among ! 
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and theyr 

echo ring. 

My love is now awake out of her dreame ; 
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed 

were 
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly 

beame, 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth 

reare. 
Oome now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
Helpe quickly her to dight ! 
But first come, ye fayre Houres, which were 

begot 
In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot ; 
And all that ever in this world is fayre, 
Do make and still repayre ! 
And ye, three handmayds of the Cyprian 

queene. 
The which do still adorn her beauteous 

pride, 
Helpe to adorn my beautifullest bride ; 



832 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And, as ye her array, still throw between 
Some graces to be seene ; 
And, as ye used to Yenus, to her sing, 
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your 
echo ring. 

I^ow is my love all ready forth to come — 

Let all the virgins, therefore, well awayt ; 

And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groome. 

Prepare yourselves ; for he is comming strayt. 

Set all your things in seemely-good aray. 

Fit for so joyfull day — 

The joyfulest day that ever sun did see. 

Fair Sun ! shew forth thy favourable ray, 

And let thy lifull heat not fervent be, 

For feare of burning her sunshyny face. 

Her beauty to disgrace. 

fayrest Phoebus ! father of the Muse ! 

If ever I did honour thee aright, 

Or sing the thmg that mote thy minde de- 
light, 

Do not thy servant's simple boone refuse ; 

But let this day, let this one day, be mine ; 

Let all the rest be thine. 

Then I thy soverayne prayeses loud will sing, 

That all the woods shal answer, and theyr 
echo ring. 

Harke ! how the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud 
Their merry musick that resounds from far — 
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud 
That well agree without en breach or jar. 
But most of all the damzels do delite 
"When they their tymbrels smyte. 
And thereunto do daunce and carrol sweet. 
That all the sences they do ravish quite ; 
The whiles the boyes run up and doune the 

street, 
Crjdng aloud with strong, confused noyce. 
As if it were one voyce : 
Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen ! they do shout, 
That even to the heavens theyr shouting 

shrill 
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; 
To which the people standing all about, 
As in approvance, do thereto applaud. 
And loud advaunce her laud ; 
And evermore they Hymen, Hymen ! sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and theyr 

echo ring. 



Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace, 
Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the east, 
Arysing forth to run her mighty race, 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 
So well it her beseems that ye would weene 
Some angell she had beene. 
Her long, loose, yellow locks, lyke golden 

wyre, 
Sprinkled with perle, and perling flowres 

atweene. 
Do lyke a golden mantle her attyre ; 
And, being crowned with a girland greene, 
Seem lyke some mayden queene. 
Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
So many gazers as on her do stare, 
Upon the lowly ground aflSxed are ; 
IsTe dare lift up her countenance too bold, 
But blush to heare her prayse sung so loud, 
So farre from being proud. 
Nathlesse do ye still loud her prayse sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your 



Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 
So fayre a creature in your towne before ? 
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 
Adornd with beauty's grace and vertue's 

store ? 
Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright ; 
Her forehead ivory white ; 
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath 

rudded ; 
Her lips lyke cherries charming men to byte , 
Her brest lyke to a bowl of cream uncrudded ; 
Her paps lyke lyllies budded ; 
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre ; 
And all her body like a pallace fayre, 
Ascending up with many a stately stayre. 
To Honor's seat and Chastity's sweet bowre. 
Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze 
Upon her so to gaze, 

"Whiles ye forget yom* former lay to sing. 
To which the woods did answer, and your 

echo ring ? 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
The inward beauty of her lively spright, 
Garnisht with heavenly gifts of high degree. 
Much more then would ye wonder at that 
sight, 



EPITHALAMION. 



333 



And stand astonisht, lyke to those wliich red 

Medusae's mazeful hed. 

There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chas- 
tity, 

Unspotted Fayth, and comely Womanhood, 

Eegard of Honour, and mild Modesty ; 

There Yertue raynes as queene in royal 
throne. 

And giveth lawes alone. 

The which the base affections do obey, 

And yeeld theyr services unto her will ; 

Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 

Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill. 

Had ye once scene these her celestial treas- 
ures, 

And unrevealed pleasures. 

Then would ye wonder, and her prayses 
sing, 

That all the woods should answer, and your 
echo ring. 

Open the temple gates unto my love! 
Open them wide, that she may enter in ! 
And all the postes adorne as doth behove, 
And all the pillars deck with girlands trim, 
For to receyve this saynt with honour dew, 
That commeth in to you ! 
With trembling steps and humble reverence 
She commeth in before th' Almighty's view. 
Of her, ye virgins, learne obedience, — 
When so ye come into those holy places. 
To humble your proud faces. 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake, 
The which do endlesse matrimony make ; 
And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
The whiles, with hollow throates. 
The choristers the joyous antheme sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and their 
echo ring. 

Behold ! whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes. 
And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, 
And the pure snow with goodly vermill 

stayne. 
Like crimson dyde in grayne : 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remaine. 



Forget their service and about her fly, 

Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more 

fayre 
The more they on it stare. 
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, 
Are governed with goodly modesty, 
That suffers not one look to glaunce awry 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand. 
The pledge of all our band ! 
Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your 

echo ring ! 

N'ow all is done: bring home the bride 

again — 
Bring home the triumph of our victory ; 
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine — 
With joyance bring her and with jollity. 
N"ever had man more joy full day than this, 
Whom Heaven would heape with bliss. 
Make feast therefore now all this live-long 

day; 
This day for ever to me holy is. 
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay — 
Poure not by cups, but by the belly-full — 
Poure out to all that wuU ! 
And sprinkle all the postes and walls with 

wine. 
That they may sweat and drunken be withall. 
Orowne ye god Bacchus with a coronall. 
And Hymen also crowne with wreaths of 

vine; 
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest. 
For they can do it best ; 
The whiles the maydens do theyr carrol 

sing. 
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr 

echo ring. 

Eing ye the bells, ye yong men of the towne. 
And leave your wonted labors for this day : 
This day is holy — do ye write it downe. 
That ye for ever it remember may, — 
This day the sun is in his chiefest hight. 
With Barnaby the bright. 
From whence declining daily by degrees. 
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light. 
When once the Crab behind his back he sees. 
But for this time it ill-ordained was 



834 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



To choose the longest day in all the yeare, 
And shortest night, when longest fitter 

weare ; 
Yet never day so long but late would passe. 
King ye the bells, to make it weare away, 
And bonfires make all day ; 
And daunce about them, and about them sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your 

echo ring. 

Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, 
And lende me leave to come unto my love ? 
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers 

spend ! 
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! 
Hast thee, fayrest planet, to thy home. 
Within the westerne foame ; 
Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. 
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, 
And the bright evening-star with golden 

crest 
Appeare out of the east. 
Fay re child of Beauty ! glorious lamp of Love ! 
That all the host of Heaven in rankes dost 

lead. 
And guidest lovers through the night's sad 

dread. 
How cherefully thou lookest from above. 
And seem'st to laugh atweene thy twinkling 

light, 
As joying in the sight 
Of these glad many, which for joy do sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and their 

echo ring. 

iN'ow cease, ye damsels, your delights fore- 
past; 
Enough it is that all the day was youres. 
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast ; 
Now bring the bryde into the brydall bowres. 
The night is come, now soon her disarray. 
And in her bed her lay ; 
Lay her in lyllies and in violets ; 
And silken curtains over her display, 
And odourd sheets, and arras coverlets. 
Behold how goodly my faire love does lye. 
In proud humility ! 

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took 
In Tempe, lying on the flowry grass, 
'Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was. 
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. 



Now it is night — ye damsels may be gone. 
And leave my love alone ; 
And leave likewise your former lay to sing : 
The woods no more shaU answer, nor your 
echo ring. 

Now welcome. Night! thou night so long 

expected. 
That long dale's labour doest at last defray. 
And all my cares which cruell Love collected. 
Hast summd in one, and cancelled for aye ! 
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, 
That no man may us see ; 
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, 
From feare of perill and foule horror free. 
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap. 
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy 
The safety of our joy ; 
But let the night be calme, and quietsome. 
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray : 
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay. 
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome ; 
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lye. 
And begot Majesty. 

And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing; 
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr 

echo ring. 

Let no lamenting cryes, nor doleftd teares, 
Be heard all night within, nor yet without ; 
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, 
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. 
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights, 
Make sudden, sad affrights ; 
Ne let house-fyres, nor lightning's helples 

harmes, 
Ne let the pouke, nor other evill sprights, 
Ne let mischievous witches with their 

charmes, 
Ne let hob-goblins, names whose sense we 

see not. 
Fray us with things that be not ; 
Let not the shriech-owle, nor the storke, be 

heard ; 
Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells ; 
Nor damned ghosts, cald up with mighty 

spells ; 
Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard. 
Ne let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still crok- 

ing 
Make us to wish theyr choking. 



EPITHALAMION 



335 



Let none of these theyr dreary accents sing ; 
ISTe let the woods them answer, nor theyr 
echo ring. 

But let stil Silence true night-watches keepe, 
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne, 
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe, 
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant 

playne ; 
The whiles an hundred little winged Loves, 
Like divers-fethered doves, 
Shall fly and flutter round about the bed. 
And in the secret darke, that none reproves, 
Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares 

shall spread 
To filch away sweet snatches of delight, 
Conceald through covert night. 
Ye sonnes of Venus play your sports at will ! 
For greedy Pleasure, carelesse of your toyes. 
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes 
Than what ye do, albeit good or ill. 
All night therefore attend your merry play, 
For it will soone be day ; 
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing; 
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your 

echo ring. 

Who is the same, which at my window 

peepes ? 
Or whose is that fayre face that shines so 

bright? 
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes, 
But walks about high Heaven all the night ? 
! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy 
My love with me to spy ; 
For thou likewise didst love, though now un- 

thought. 
And for a fleece of wool, which privily 
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee 

brought, 
His pleasures with thee wrought. 
Therefore to us be favorable now ; 
And sith of women's labours thou hast charge, 
And generation goodly dost enlarge, 
Encline thy will t' effect our wishfuU vow. 
And the chast womb informe with timely 

seed. 
That may our comfort breed : 
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing ; 
Ne let the woods us answer, nor our echo 

ring. 



And thou, great Juno ! which with awful 

might 
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize ; 
And the religion of the faith first plight 
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize ; 
And eke for comfort often called art 
Of women in their smart — 
Eternally bind thou this lovely band. 
And all thy blessings unto us impart. 
And thou, glad Genius ! in whose gentle hand 
The brydale bowre and geniall bed remaine. 
Without blemish or staine ; 
And the sweet pleasures of theyr love's delight 
With secret ayde dost succour and supply. 
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny ; 
Send us the timely fruit of this same night ; 
And thou, fayre Hebe ! and thou, Hymen free! 
Grant that it may so be ; 
Till which we cease your further praise to sing, 
Ne any wood shall answer, nor your echo ring. 

And ye, high Heavens, the temple of the gods. 
In which a thousand torches flaming bright 
Do burne, that to us wretched earthly clods 
In dreadful darknesse lend desired light ; 
And all ye powers which in the same re- 

mayne, 
More than we men can fayne — 
Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, 
And happy influence upon us raine, 
That we may raise a large posterity. 
Which, from the Earth which they may long 

possesse 
With lasting happinesse. 
Tip to your haughty pallaces may mount ; 
And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit. 
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit. 
Of blessed saints for to increase the count. 
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, 
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing : 
The woods no more us answer, nor our echo 

ring. 

Song ! made in lieu of many ornaments^ 

With wliiclimy love should duly have l)een deckt^ 

Which cutting off through hasty accidents^ 

Ye would not stay your due time to expect^ 

Butpromist loth to recompens; 

Be unto her a goodly ornament^ 

And for short time an endlesse monument ! 

Edmund Spenseb. 



836 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



EPITHALAMITJM. 

I SAW two clouds at morning, 

Tinged bj the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was blest. 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 
Flow smoothly to their meeting. 

And join their course with silent force. 
In peace each other greeting ; 

Calm was their course through banks of 
green. 

While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion. 
Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 

Like Summer's beam, and Summer's stream, 
Float on, in joy, to meet 

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 

A purer sky, where all is peace. 

JOHX G-. C. Beainakd. 



NOT OUKS THE YOWS. 

Not ours the vows of such as plight 
Their troth in sunny weather, 

While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow, 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 

And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
StiU more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time, 

And through death's shadowy portal ; 

Made by adversity sublime, 

By faith and hope immortal. 

Bbenaed Baeton. 



"MY LOYE HAS TALKED." 

My love has talked with rocks and trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crowned — 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 

I looked on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two, they dwelt with eye on eye ; 

Their hearts of old have beat in tune ; 

Their meetings made December June ; 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never passed away; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone — ^he sits apart — 

He loves her yet — she will not weep. 
Though, rapt in matters dark and deep, 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind; 
♦ He reads the secret of the star — 
* He seems so near and yet so far ; 
He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before — 
A withered violet is her bliss ; 
She knows not what his greatness is ; 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house ; 

And he — ^he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixed and cannot move ; 

She darkly feels him great and wise ; 

She dwells on him with faithful eyes : 
" I cannot understand — I love." 

Alfred TEi?>rTSON 



TO SARAH. 



33Y 



IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE. 

If thou vfevt by mj side, my love, 
How fast would evenirig fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee. 
How gaily would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
"When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer, 

But miss thy kind, approving eye. 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when at morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far. 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 

My course be onward still. 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they 
say. 
Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
As then shall meet in thee ! 

Eeginau) Hebkb. 

22 



MY "WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer. 

And neist my heart I'U wear her. 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife of mine. 

The warld's wrack, we share o 't. 
The warstle and the care o 't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 

EOBEET BtJENS. 



TO SARAH. 

One happy year has fled, SaU, 

Since you were aU my own ; 
The leaves have felt the autunm blight. 

The wintry storm has blown. 
We heeded not the cold blast, 

Nor the winter's icy air ; 
For we found our climate in the heart. 

And it was summer there. 



The summer sun is bright. Sail, 

The skies are pure in hue — 
But clouds will sometimes sadden them. 

And dim theii' lovely blue ; 
And clouds may come to us. Sail, 

But sure they will not stay ; 
For there 's a speU in fond hearts 

To chase their gloom away, 

In sickness and in sorrow 
Thine eyes were on me still. 

And there was comfort in each glance 
To charm the sense of iU ; 



838 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And were they absent now, Sail, 

I 'd seek my bed of pain, 
And bless each pang that gave me back 

Those looks of love again. 

0, pleasant is the welcome kiss 

When day's dull round is o'er, 
And sweet the music of the step 

That meets me at the door. 
Though worldly cares may visit us, 

I reck not when they fall, 
"While I have thy kind lips, my Sail, 

To smile away them all. 

Joseph Kodman Deakb. 



THE FIKESIDE. 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

In folly's maze advance ; 
Though singularity and pride 
Be called our choice, we'll step aside, 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

From the gay world we 'U oft retire 
To our own family and fire, 

"Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbor enters here, 
No intermeddling stranger near. 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize, 
"Within our breast this jewel lies. 

And they are fools who roam ; 
The world hath nothing to bestow — 
From our own selves our bliss must flow. 

And that dear hut, our home. 

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 
"We, who improve his golden hours, 

By sweet experience know 
That marriage, rightly understood, 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below. 

Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; 
If tutored right, they '11 prove a spring 
"Whence pleasures ever rise ; 



"We '11 form their minds with studious care 
To all that 's manly, good, and fair, 
And train them for the skies. 

"While they our wisest hours engage. 
They '11 joy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs ; 
They '11 grow in virtue every day. 
And thus our fondest loves repay. 

And recompense our cares. 

No borrowed joys, they 're all our own, 
"While to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forgot ; 
Monarchs ! we envy not your state — 
We look with pity on the great. 

And bless our humble lot. 

Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
But then how httle do we need ! 

For Nature's calls are few ; 
In this the art of living lies, 
To want no more than may suflSce, 

And make that little do. 

We 'U therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our power ; 
For, if our stock be very small, 
'T is prudence to enjoy it aU, 

Nor lose the present hour. 

To be resigned when ills betide. 
Patient when favors are denied. 

And pleased with favors given — 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part. 
This is that incense of the heart. 

Whose fragrance smells to Heaven. 

We 'U ask no long-protracted treat. 
Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 

But, when our feast is o'er. 
Grateful from table we 'U arise, 
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes. 

The relics of our store. 

Thus hand in hand through life we '11 go ; 
Its chequered paths of joy and woe 

With cautious steps we '11 tread ; 
Quit ite vain scenes without a tear. 
Without a trouble, or a fear. 

And mingle with the dead ; 



THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 339 


While conscience, like a faithful friend, 


And sweeter still to choose and twine 


Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 


A garland for that brow of thine — 


And cheer our dying breath — 


A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 


Shall, when all other comforts cease, 


While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 


Like a kind angel whisper peace, 




And smooth the bed of death. 


At times there come, as come there ought. 


Nathaniel Cotton. 


Grave moments of sedater thought, 




When Fortune frowns, nor lends om* night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 






And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower. 


THE POET'S BEIDATrDAY SONG. 


Shines like a rainbow through the shower ; 




then I see, while seated nigh. 


0, MY love 's like the steadfast sun. 


A mother's heart shine in thine eye. 


Or streams that deepen as they run; 


And proud resolve and purpose meek. 


]!!Tor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 


Speak of thee more than words can spea^. 


Nor mXDments between sighs and tears. 


I think this wedded wife of mine, 


Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 


The best of all that's not divine. 


ISTor dreams of glory dreamed in vain ; 


Allan Cunningham. 


Nor -mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 




To sober joys and soften woes. 




Can make my heart or fancy flee. 




One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 




THE POET'S SONG TO HIS Wli^'E. 


Even while I muse, I see thee sit 




In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 


How many summers, love. 


Fair, gentle as when first I sued. 
Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 


Have I been thine ? 
How many days, thou dove. 


Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 


Hast thou been mine? 
Time, like the winged wind 


We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 
Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 


When 't bends the flowers. 
Hath left no mark behind, 


Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, 


To count the hours ! 


When looks were fond and words were few. 






Some weight of thought, though loth, 


Though I see smiling at thy feet 


On thee he leaves ; 


Eive sons and ae fair daughter sweet, 


Some lines of care round both 


And time and care and birthtime woes 


Perhaps he weaves ; 


Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose. 


Some fears, — a soft regret 


To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 


For joys scarce known ; 


Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 


Sweet looks we half forget ; — 


When words descend like dews, unsought. 


All else is flown ! 


With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, 




And Fancy in her heaven flies free, 


. Ah ! — With what thankless heart 


They come, my love, they come from thee. 


I mourn and sing ! 




Look, where our children start. 


0, when more thought we gave, of old, 


Like sudden Spring ! 


To silver, than some give to gold, 


With tongues all sweet and low. 


'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er 


Like a pleasant rhyme. 


How we should deck our humble bower ; 


They tell how much I owe 


'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 


To thee and Time! 


The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; 


Baebt Coenwall. 



840 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



THE BLISSFUL DAY. 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet; 
Tbo' winter wild in tempest toiled, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes. 

Heaven gave me more; it made thee mine. 

"While day and night can bring dehght, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give — 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart. 
EoB££T Busks. 



JOHN ANDERSON. 

John Andeeson, my jo John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Tour locks were like the raven, 

Your bonny brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither; 
Now we maun totter doun, John, 

But hand in hand we 'U go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

EOBBBT BtJENS. 



PART Y. 
POEMS OF AMBITION 



Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause 
Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, 
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
To latest times ; and ^culpture, in her turn, 
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass 
To guard them, and to immortalize her trust. 

COWPEE. 



COURAGE ! there he comes ; 



What ray of honor round about him looms ! 

0, what new beams from his bright eyes do glance ! 

princely port ! presageful countenance 

Of hap at hand ! He doth not nicely prank 

In clinquant pomp, as some of meanest rank, 

But armed in steel ; that bright habiliment 

Is his rich valor's sole rich ornament. 

JOSHTTA SyLVESTEB. 



I 



En avant! marchons 
Contre leurs canons ! 
A travers le fer, le feu des battaillons, 
Courons a la victoire ! 

Casimik de la Vigne. 



The perfect heat of that celestial fire. 
That so inflames the pure heroic breast. 
And lifts the thought, that it can never rest 

Till it to Heaven attain its prime desire. 

LoED Thtjblow. 



POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


HORATIUS. 


IV. 




From lordly Volaterrae, 


A LAT MADE ABOUT THE TEAK OF EOME OOOLX. 


Where scowls the far-famed hold 




Piled by the hands of giants 


I. 


For godlike kings of old ; 


Lae8 Porsena of Olusium, 


From sea-girt Populonia, 


By tlie Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 
Should suffer wrong no more. 


Whose sentinels descry 
Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 
Fringing the southern sky; 


By the Nine Gods he swore it, 




And named a trusting day, 


V. 


And bade his messengers ride forth, 


From the proud mart of Pisae, 


East and west and south and north, 


Queen of the western waves, 


To summon his array. 


Where ride Massilia's triremes. 




Heavy with fair-haired slaves; 


TT 


From where sweet Clanis wanders 


11. 


Through corn and vines and flowers ; 


East and west and south and north 


From where Oortona lifts to heaven 


The messengers ride fast. 


Her diadem of towers. 


And tower and town and cottage 




Have heard the trumpet's blast. 


VI. 


Shame on the false Etruscan 




Who lingers in his home, 


Tall are the oaks whose acorns 


When Porsena of Clusium 


Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 


Is on the march for Eome ! 


Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 




Of the Ciminian hill ; 




Beyond all streams, Clitumnus 


m. 


Is to the herdsman dear, 


The horsemen and the footmen 


Best of aU pools the fowler loves 


Are pouring in amain . 


The great Yolsinian mere. 


From many a stately market-place, 




From many a fruitful plain, 


vn. 


From many a lonely hamlet, 


But now no stroke of woodman 


Which, hid by beech and pine. 


Is heard by Auser's rill; 


Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 


No hunter tracks the stag's green path- 


Of purple Apennine; 


Up the Ciminian hill ; 



344 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


TJnwatclied along Clitumnus 


And with a mighty following, 


Grazes the milk-white steer ; 


To join the muster, came 


Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 


The Tusculan Mamilius, 


In the Yolsinian mere. 


Prince of the Latian name. 


Viii. 


xm. 


The harvests of Arretium, 


But by the yellow Tiber 


This year, old men shall reap; 


"Was tumult and affright ; 


This year, young boys in TJmbro 


From all the spacious champaign 


Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 


To Eome men took their flight. 


And in the vats of Luna, 


A mile around the city 


This year, the must shall foam 


The throng stopped up the ways ; 


Bound the white feet of laughing girls 


A fearful sight it was to see 


"Whose sires have marched to Eome. 


Through two long nights and days. 


IX. 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 


XIV. 

For aged folk on crutches, 


The wisest of the land, 


And women great with child. 


"Who alway by T.ars Porsena 


And mothers, sobbing over babes 


Both morn and evening stand. 


That clung to them and smiled. 


Evening and morn the thirty 


And sick men borne in litters 


Have turned the verses o'er, 


High on the necks of slaves. 


Traced from the right on linen white 


And troops of sunburned husbandmen 


By mighty seers of yore ; 


"With reaping-hooks and staves, 


X. 

And with one voice the thirty 


XV. 

And droves of mules and asses 


Have their glad answer given : 


Laden with skins of wine, 


" Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena— 


And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 


Go forth, beloved of Heaven ! 


And endless herds of kine, 


Go, and return in glory 


And endless trains of wagons. 


To Clusium's royal dome. 


That creaked beneath the weight 


And hang round Nurscia's altars 


Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 


The golden shields of Eome ! " 


• Choked every roaring gate. 


XI. 

And now hath every city 


XVI. 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 


Sent up her tale of men ; 


Could the wan burghers spy 


The foot are fourscore thousand, 


The line of blazing villages 


The horse are thousands ten. 


Eed in the midnight sky. 


Before the gates of Sutrium 


The fathers of the city. 


Is met the great array ; 


They sat all night and day. 


A proud man was Lars Porsena 


For every hour some horseman came 


Upon the trysting day. 


"With tidings of dismay. 


XII. 

For all the Etruscan armies 


xvn. 
To eastward and to westward 


"Were ranged beneath his eye. 


Have spread the Tuscan bands, 


And many a banished Eoman, 


Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot. 


And many a stout ally ; 


In Crustumerium stands. 



HORATIUS. 



345 



Yerbenna down to Ostia 
Hath wasted all the plain ; 

Astur hath stormed Janiculura, 
And the stout guards are slain. 



I wis, in all the Senate 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns, 

And hied them to the wall. 

XIX. 

They held a council, standing 

Before the Eiver-Gate ; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess, 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 

" The bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Nought else can save the town." 



Just then a scout came flying. 

All wild with haste and fear : 
" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul — 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Kise fast along the sky. 

XXI. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still, and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud. 
Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud, 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears. 
Far to left and far to right. 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 



And plainly and more plainly. 

Above that glimmering line, 
Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fair cities shine ; 
But the banner of proud Clusium 

Was highest of them aU — 
The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the Gaul. 



And plainly and more plainly 

Now might the burghers know, 
By port and vest, by horse and crest. 

Each warlike Lucumo : 
There Cilnius of Arretium 

On his fleet roan was seen ; 
And Astur of the fourfold shield, 
Girt with the brand none else may wield; 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
And dark Yerbenna from the hold 

By reedy Thrasymene. 



Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 



But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the housetops was no woman 

But spat towards him and hissed. 
No child but screamed out curses. 

And shook its little fist. 

XXVI. 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 
And the Consul's speech was low. 

And darkly looked he at the wall, 
And darkly at the foe : 



346 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


" Their van will be upon us 


For Komans in Rome's quarrel 


Before the bridge goes down ; 


Spared neither land nor gold, 


And if they once may win the bridge, 


Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. 


What hope to save the town ? " 


In the brave days of old. 


XXVII. 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 


XXXII. 


The Captain of the Gate : 


Then none was for a party — 


" To every man upon this earth 


Then all were for the State ; 


Death cometh soon or late. 


Then the great man helped the poor, 


And how can man die better 


And the poor man loved the great ; 


Than facing fearful odds 


Then lands were fairly portioned! 


For the ashes of his fathers, 


Then spoils were fairly sold : 


And the temples of his Gods? 


The Romans were like brothers 




In the brave days of old. 


xxvm. 




" And for the tender mother 


XXXIII, 


Who dandled him to rest. 




And for the wife who nurses 


Now Roman is to Roman 


His baby at her breast, 


More hateful than a foe, 


And for the holy maidens 


And the Tribunes beard the high. 


Who feed the eternal flame — 


And the Fathers grind the low. 


To save them from false Sextus 


As we wax hot in faction. 


That wrought the deed of shame? 


In battle we wax cold; 




Wherefore men fight not as they fought 


XXTX. 


In the brave days of old. 


"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 




With all the speed ye may ; 


XXXTV. 


I, with two more to help me, 
Will hold the foe in play- 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand, 


Now while the Three were tightening 


Their harness on their backs. 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in hand an axe ; 
And Fathers, mixed with Commons, 


And keep the bridge with me?" 


Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 




And smote upon the planks above, 


XXX. 


And loosed the props below. 


Then out spake Spurius Lartius — 




A Eamnian proud was he : 




" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 


XXXV. 


And keep the bridge with thee." 


Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 


And out spake strong Herminius — 


Right glorious to behold. 


Of Titian blood was he : 


Came flashing back the noonday light, 


" I will abide on thy left side. 


Rank behind rank, like surges bright 


And keep the bridge with thee." 


Of a broad sea of gold. 




Four hundred trumpets sounded 


XXXT. 


A peal of warlike glee. 


" Horatius," quoth the Consul, 


As that great host, with measured tread, 


"As thou sayest, so let it be." 


And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 


And straight against that great array 


Rolled slo\'.iy towards the bridge's head, 


Forth went the dauntless Three. 


Where stood the dauntless Three. 



HORATIUS. 847 


XXXVI. 


"Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! 


The Three stood calm and silent, 


'No more, aghast and pale. 


And looked upon the foes, 


From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 


And a great shout of laughter 


The track of thy destroying bark ; 


From all the vanguard rose ; 


No more Campania's hinds shall fly 


And forth three chiefs came spurring 


To woods and caverns, when they spy 


Before that deep array ; 


Thy thrice-accursed sail I " 


To earth they sprang, their swords they 




drew, 


XTJ. 


And lifted high their shields, and flew • 


But now no sound of laughter 


To win the narrow way. 


Was heard among the foes; 


■yvyxTTT 


A wild and wrathful clamor 


A A A V -U.. 

Annus, from green Tifernum, 
Lord of the Hill of Yines ; 


From aU the vanguard rose. 
Six spears' lengths from the entrance 


And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 
Sicken in Ilva's mines ; 


Halted that deep array. 
And for a space no man came forth 


And Picus, long to Olusium 


To win the narrow way. 


Vassal in peace and war, 




"Who led to fight his TJmhrian powers 


XT,n. 


From that gray crag where, girt with 


But, hark ! the cry is Astur : 


towers, 


And lo ! the ranks divide ; 


The fortress of Nequinum lowers 


And the great Lord of Luna 


O'er the pale waves of Nar. 


Comes with his stately stride. 


xxxvm. 
Stout Lartius hurled down Annus 


Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield. 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 


Into the stream beneath ; 


Which none but he can wield. 


Herminius struck at Seius, 




And clove him to the teeth ; 




At Picus brave Horatius 


XT.m. 


Darted one fiery thrust. 


He smiled on those bold Romans, 


And the proud TJmbrian's gilded arms 


A smile serene and high ; 


Clashed in the bloody dust. 


He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 




And scorn was in his eye. 


XXXI-X. 


Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter 


Then Ocnus of Falerii 


Stand savagely at bay ; 


Pushed on the Poman Three ; 


But will ye dare to follow. 


And Lausulus of Urgo, 


If Astur clears the way ? " 


The rover of the sea ; 




And Aruns of Yolsinium, 




Who slew the great wild boar — 


XLTV. 


The great wild boar that had his den 


Then, whirling up his broadsword 


Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen. 


With both hands to the height. 


And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 
Along Albinia.'s shore. 


He rushed against Horatius, 
And smote with aU his might. 




With shield and blade Horatius 


XL. 


Eight deftly turned the blow. 


Herminius smote down Aruns ; 


The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh. 


Lartius laid Ocnus low ; 


It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh — 


Bight to the heart of Lausulus 


The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 


Horatius sent a blow : 


To see the red blood flow. 



348 



POEMS OF AMBITION 



XLV. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing space — 
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wonnds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 

So fierce a thrust he sped, 
The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

XLVI. 

And the gi'eat Lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke, 
As falls on Mount Avernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread ; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

xLvn. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Eight firmly pressed his heel. 
And thrice and four times tugged amain, 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
"And see," he cried, "the welcome. 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Eoman cheer ? " 

XLvin. 

But at his haughty challenge 

A sullen murmur ran. 
Mingled with wrath, and shame, and dread. 

Along that glittering van. 
There lacked not men of prowess, 

For men of lordly race ; 
For all Etruria's noblest 

"Were round the fatal place. 

XLIX. 

But all Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses, 

In the path the dauntless Three ; 
And from the ghastly entrance, 

"Where those bold Eomans stood, 
AH shrank— like boys who, unaware, 
Eanging a wood to start a hare, 



Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
"Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 
Lies amidst bones and blood. 



"Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack ; 
But those behind cried "Forward I " 

And those before cried "Back! " 
^d backward now, and forward, 

"Wavers the deep array ; 
And on the tossing sea of steel 
To and fro the standards reel. 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

LI. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd; 
"Well known was he to all the Three, 

And they gave him greeting loud : 
" Fow welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

ITow welcome to thy home ! 
"Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 

Here lies the road to Eome." 

LH. 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury. 

And thrice turned back in dread ; 
And, white with fear and hatred. 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

Lm. 
But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied ; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius I " 

Loud cried the Fathers aU — 
" Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius I 

Back, ere the ruin faU I " 

LIV. 

Back darted Spurius Lartius — 

Herminius darted back ; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 



HORATIUS. 349 


But when they turned their faces, 


So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 


And on the farther shore 


The good sword by his side, 


Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 


And, with his harness on his back, 


They would have crossed once more ; 


Plunged headlong in the tide. 


LV. 

But with a crash like thunder 


LX. 


Fell every loosened beam, 


N"o sound of joy or sorrow 


And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 


Was heard from either bank, 


Lay right athwart the stream ; 


But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 


And a long shout of triumph 


With parted lips and straining eyes, 


Eose from the walls of Eome, 


Stood gazing where he sank ; 


As to the highest turret-tops 


And when above the surges 


Was splashed the yellow foam. 


They saw his crest appear. 




All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 


LVI. 


And even the ranks of Tuscany 


And like a horse unbroken, 


Could scarce forbear to cheer. 


When first he feels the rein, 




The furious river struggled hard, 




And tossed his tawny mane, 


LXI. 


And burst the curb, and bounded, 

Rejoicing to be free ; 
And whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 


But fiercely ran the current. 

Swollen high by months of ram ; 

And fast his blood was flowing ; 
And he was sore in pain, 

And heavy with his armor. 


Lvn. 


And spent with changing blows ; 


Alone stood brave Horatius, 
But constant still in mind — 


And oft they thought him sinking, 
But still again he rose. 


Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 




And the broad flood behind. 


T.XTT. 


" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 




With a smile on his pale face ; 


Fever, I ween, did swimmer. 


" N"ow yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 


In such an evil case, 


" Now yield thee to our grace ! " 


Struggle through such a raging flood 




Safe to the landing place ; 


Lvm. 


But his limbs were borne up bravely 


Round turned he, as not deigning 


By the brave heart within, 


Those craven ranks to see ; 


And our good father Tiber 


Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 


Bare bravely up his chin. 


To Sextus nought spake he ; 




But he saw on Palatinus 




The white porch of his home ; 


Lxin. 


And he spake to the noble river 


" Ourse on him !" quoth false Sextus, — 


That rolls by the towers of Rome : 


" Will not the villain drown ? 




But for this stay, ere close of day 


LIX. 


We should have sacked the town !" 


"0, Tiber! Father Tiber! 


"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, 


To whom the Romans pray, 


" And bring him safe to shore ; 


A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 


For such a gallant feat of arms 


Take thou in charge this day I " 


Was never seen before." 



850 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


T.TTY. 


T.XTX. 


And now he feels the hottom ; 


"When the oldest cask is opened, 


Now on dry earth he stands ; 


And the largest lamp is lit ; 


Now round him throng the Fathers 


When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 


To press his gory hands ; 


And the kid turns on the spit ; 


And now, with shouts and clapping, 


When young and old in circle 


And noise of weeping lond. 


Around the firebrands close; 


He enters through the Kiver-Gate, 


When the girls are weaving baskets, 


Borne hy the joyous crowd. 


And the lads are shaping bows ; 


LXV. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 


T.XY. 

When the goodman mends his armor, 


That was of public right, 


And truns his hehnet's plume ; 


As much as two strong oxen 


When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 


Could plough from morn till night ; 


Goes flashing through the loom ; 


And they made a molten image. 


With weeping and with laughter 


And set it up on high — 


Still is the story told. 


And there it stands unto this day 


How well Horatius kept the bridge 


To witness if I lie. 


In the brave days of old. 




Thomas Babington Macattlat. 


LXVI. 




It stands in the Oomitium, 
Plain for all folk to see, — 






Horatius in his harness, 




Halting upon one knee ; 


THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHE- 


And underneath is written, 


RIB. 


In letters all of gold, 




How vahantly he kept the bridge 


The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 


In the brave days of old. 


the fold. 




And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 


Lxvn. 


gold; 


And stiU his name sounds stirring 


And the sheen of their spears was like stars 


Unto the men of Eome, 


on the sea. 


As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 


When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 


To charge the Yolscian home ; 


Galilee. 


And wives still pray to Juno 




For boys with hearts as bold 


Like the leaves of the forest when Summer 


As his who kept the bridge so weU 


is green. 


In the brave days of old. 


That host with their banners at sunset were 


LXVIU. 


seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn 


And in the nights of winter, 


hath flown. 


When the cold north winds blow. 


That host on the morrow lay withered and 


And the long howling of the wolves 


strown. 


Is heard amidst the snow ; 




When round the lonely cottage 


For the Angel of Death spread his wings on 


Ptoars loud the tempest's din, 


the blast, 


And the good logs of Algidus 


And breathed in the face of the foe as he 


Roar louder yet within ; 


passed ; 



IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. 



351 



And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly 

and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for 

ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all 

wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath 

of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on 

the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 

surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
"With the dew on his brow and the rust on 

his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners 

alone, 
The lances unhfted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 

wail; 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 

the sword, 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 

Lord! 

LoED Bybon. 



HARMODIUS Am) ARISTOGEITOK 

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough. 
The sword that laid the tyrant low. 
When patriots burning to be free, 
To Athens gave equality. 

Harmodius, hail ! though 'reft of breath, 
Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death ; 
The heroes' happy isles shall be 
The bright abode allotted thee. 

I '11 wreathe my sword in myrtle bough. 
The sword that laid Hipparchus low. 
When at Athena's adverse fane 
He knelt, and never rose again. 

While Freedom's name is understood, 
You shall delight the wise and good ; 
You dared to set your country free. 
And gave her laws equality. 
Translatiou of Lokd Denman. Callisteattts (Greek). 



IT IS GKEAT FOR OUR COUNTRY 
TO DIE. 

O ! IT is great for our country to die, where 
ranks are contending : 
Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory 
awaits us for aye — 
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with 
light never ending — 
Glory that never shall fade, never, O! 
never away. 

! it is sweet for our country to die ! How 
softly reposes 
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the 
tears of his love. 
Wet by a mother's warm tears ; they crown 
him with garlands of roses, 
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright 
where he triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend 
who for country hath perished ; 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him 
there with her smile ; 
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot 
spirit is cherished ; 
Gods love the young who ascend pure from 
the funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious 
river ; 
Not to the isles of the blest, over the 
blue, rolling sea ; 
But on Olympian heights shaU dwell the de- 
voted for ever ; 
There shall assemble the good, there the 
wise, valiant, and free. 

O ! then, how great for our country to die, 
in the front rank to perish. 
Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's 
shout in our ear ! 
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs 
our memory cherish ; 
We shall look forth from our heaven, 
pleased the sweet music to hear. 

James Gates Pbeoiyal. 



852 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


LEONIDAS. 


PERIOT,FS AND ASPASIA. 


Shout for the mighty men 


This was the ruler of the land 


"Who died along this shore, 


When Athens was the land of fame ; 


Who died within this mountain's glen ! 


This was the light that led the band 


For never nobler chieftain's head 


When each was like a living flame ; 


Was laid on valor's crimson bed, 


The centre of earth's noblest ring — 


Nor ever prouder gore 


Of more than men the more than king. 


Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! 


Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 




His sovereignty was held or won : 




Feared — but alone as freemen fear, 


Shout for the mighty men 


Loved — but as freemen love alone, 


Who on the Persian tents. 


He waved the sceptre o'er his kind 


Like lions from their midnight den 


By nature's first great title — mind ! 


Bounding on the slumbering deer, 




Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 


Resistless words were on his tongue — 


Like the roused elements. 


Then eloquence first flashed below ; 


Let loose from an immortal hand 


Full armed to life the portent sprung — 


To chasten or to crush a land ! 


Minerva from the thunderer's brow! 




And his the sole, the sacred hand 




That shook her aegis o'er the land. 


But there are none to hear — 




Greece is a hopeless slave. 


And throned immortal by his side, 


Leonidas ! no hand is near 


A woman sits with eye sublime, — 


To lift thy fiery falchion now ; 


Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 


No warrior makes the warrior's vow 


But, if their solemn love were crime. 


Upon thy sea- washed grave. 


Pity the beauty and the sage — 


The voice that should be raised by men 


Their crime was in their darkened age. 


Must now be given by wave and glen. 






He perished, but his wreath was won — 




He perished in his height of fame ; 


And it is given ! — ^the surge, 


Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun, 


The tree, the rock, the sand 


Yet still she conquered in his name. 


On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 


Filled with his soul, she could not die ; 


In sounds that speak but to the free, 


Her conquest was Posterity! 


The memory of thine and thee ! 


Gboege Ceoly. 


The vision of thy band 




Still gleams within the glorious dell 


^ 


* 


Where their gore hallowed as it fell ! 


BOADIOEA. 


And is thy grandeur done? 


When the British warrior queen, 


Mother of men like these ! 


Bleeding from the Roman rods. 


Has not thy outcry gone 


Sought, with an indignant mien. 


Where Justice has an ear to hear? — 


Counsel of her country's gods. 


Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear, 




Till in thy crimsoned seas 


Sage beneath the spreading oak 


Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 


Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 


Greece shall be a new-born star ! 


Every barning word he spoke 


Gboege Ceoly. 

i 


Full of rage and full of grief. 



THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 



868 



Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
'T is because resentment ties 

All the terrors of our tongues. 

Eome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt ; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

Eome, for empire far renowned, 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates I 

Other Eomans shall arise. 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land. 

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

Eegions CaBsar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they. 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire. 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride. 
Felt them in her bosom glow : 

Eushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

Euffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 

William Cowpbb. 



23 



THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 



King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the 

trumpet sound, 
He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from 

the hills and plains around ; 
From Yega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 
They have come with helm and cuirass of 

gold and twisted steel. 



'T is the holy Baptist's feast they hold in roy- 
alty and state. 

And they have closed the spacious lists beside 
the Alhambra's gate ; 

In gowns of black, and silver-laced, within 
the tented ring. 

Eight Moors, to fight the bull, are placed in 
presence of the king, 

m. 

Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stal- 
wart arm and true. 

The onset of the beasts abide, come trooping 
ftirious through ; 

The deeds they 've done, the spoils they 've 
won, fiU all with hope and trust ; 

Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they 
aU have bit the dust. 

rv. 
Then sounds the trumpet clearly ; then clangs 

the loud tambour : 
Make room, make room for Gazul — ^throw 

wide, throw wide the door I 
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more 

loudly strike the di'um — 
The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth 



And first before the king he passed, with rev- 
erence stooping low, 

And next he bowed him to the queen, and 
the infantas all a-rowe ; 

Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to 
him did throw 

A scarf from out her balcony, was whiter 
than the snow. 



864 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



VI. 

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords 

all slippery is the sand, 
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en 

his stand ; 
And ladies look with heaving breast, and 

lords with anxious eye — 
But the lance is firmly in its rest, and his 

look is calm and high. 

vn. 

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and 

two come roaring on ; 
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his 

rejon; 
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals 

him such a blow, 
He blindly totters and gives back, across the 

sand to go. 

vin. 

" Turn, Gazul, turn," the people cry — " the 
third comes up behind ; 

Low to the sand his head holds he, his nos- 
trils snuff the wind ; " 

The mountaineers that lead the steers with- 
out stand whispering low, 

"Kow thinks this proud Alcayde to stun 
Harpado so?" 

IX. 

From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not 

from Xenil, 
From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of 

the hill; 
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's 

waters clear. 
Beneath the oak trees was he nursed, this 

proud and stately steer. 



Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood 

within doth boil ; 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he 

paws to the turmoil. 
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal 

rings of snow ; 
But now they stare with one red glare of 

brass upon the foe. 



XI. 

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand 

close and near. 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like 

daggers they appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old 

knotted tree. 
Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like 

billows curled, ye see. 

xn. 

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his 
hoofs are black as night. 

Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierce- 
ness of his might ; 

Like something molten out of iron, or hewn 
from forth the rock, 

Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Al- 
cayde's shock. 

XIII. 

Now stops the drum— close, close they come 
— thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 

The white foam of Harpado lies on the char- 
ger's breast of black — 

The white foam of the charger on Harpado's 
front of dun : 

Once more advance upon his lance — once 
more, thou fearless one ! 

XIV. 

Once more, once more — ^in dust and gore to 

ruin must thou reel ; 
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with 

furious heel — 
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see 

thee stagger ; 
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the 

stern Alcayde's dagger 1 

XV. 

They have slipped a noose around his feet ; 
six horses are brought in, 

And away they drag Harpado with a loud 
and joyful din. 

Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and 
the ring of price bestow 

Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Har- 
pado low. 

ANONYMors (Spanish). 

Translation of John Gibson Lookhakt. 



CHEVY- 


■CHASE. 355 




The hounds ran swiftly through the 


OHEYY-CHASE. 


woods. 




The nimble deer to take, 




That with their cries the hills and dales 


God prosper long our noble king, 


An echo shrill did make. 


Our lives and safeties all ; 




A woful hunting once there did 




In Chevy-Chase befall. 


Lord Percy to the quarry went. 




To view the slaughtered deer ; 


To drive the deer with hound and horn 


Quoth he, " Earl Douglas promised 


Earl Percy took his way ; 


This day to meet me here ; 


The child may rue that is unborn 




The hunting of that day. 


But if I thought he would not come. 




No longer would I stay ; " 


The stout Earl of llTorthumberland 


"With that a brave young gentleman 


A vow to God did make, 


Thus to the Earl did say : 


His pleasure in the Scottish woods 




Three SuniTTier days to take — 


"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come 




His men in armor bright ; 


The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase 


Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 


To kill and bear away. 


All marching in our sight ; 


These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 




In Scotland where he lay ; 


All men of pleasant Teviotdale, 




Fast by the river Tweed ; " 


Who sent Earl Percy present word 


"Then cease your sports," Earl Percy 


He would prevent his sport. 


said, 


The English earl, not fearing that, 


*' And take your bows with speed; 


Did to the woods resort. 






And now with me, my countrymen, 


"With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 


Your courage forth advance ; 


All chosen men of might. 


For never was there champion yet. 


"Who knew fuU weU in time of need 


In Scotland or in France, 


To aim their shafts aright. 






That ever did on horseback come, 


The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 


But if my hap it were. 


To chase the fallow deer ; 


I durst encounter man for man. 


On Monday they began to hunt 


"With him to break a spear." 


"When day-light did appear ; 






Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed. 


And long before high noon they had 


Most like a baron bold. 


A hundred fat bucks slain ; 


Kode foremost of his company. 


Then having dined, the drovers went 


"Whose armor shone like gold. 


To rouse the deer again. 






"Show me," said he, "whose men you 


The bowmen mustered on the hills, 


be, 


"Well able to endure ; 


That hunt so boldy here. 


And all their rear, with special care, 


That, without my consent, do chase 


That day was guarded sure. 


And kill my fallow-deer." 



356 



POEMS OF AMBITION 



The first man that did answer make, 

Was noble Percy he — 
"Who said, " We list not to declare, 

Nor show whose men we be : 

Yet will we spend our dearest blood 

Thy chiefest harts to slay." 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

And thus in rage did say : 

" Ere thus I will out-braved be, 

One of us two shall die ; 
I know thee well, an Earl thou art — 

Lord Percy, so am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pity it were. 

And great offence, to kill 
Any of these our guiltless men, 

For they have done no ill. 

Let yon and me the battle try. 

And set our men aside." 
" Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, 

" By whom this is denied." 

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, 
"Witherington was his name. 

Who said, " I would not have it told 
To Henry, our king, for shame, 

That e'er my captain fought on foot, 

And I stood looking on. 
You two be Earls," said Witherington, 

" And I a squire alone ; 

I 'U do the best that do I may, 
While I have power to stand ; 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
I '11 fight with heart and hand." 

Our English archers bent their bows — 
Their hearts were good and true ; 

At the first flight of arrows sent. 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent. 
As chieftain stout and good ; 

As valiant captain, all unmoved. 
The shock he firmly stood. 



His host he parted had in three, 

As leader ware and tried ; 
And soon his spearmen on their foes 

Bore down on every side. 

Throughout the English archery 
They dealt full many a wound; 

But stUl our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground. 

And throwing straight their bows away, 
They grasped their swords so bright ; 

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower. 
On shields and helmets light. 

They closed full fast on every side — 
No slackness there was found ; 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

In truth, it was a grief to see 
How each one chose his spear. 

And how the blood out of their breasts 
Did gush like water clear. 

At last these two stout Earls did meet ; 

Like captains of great might, 
Like lions wode, they laid on lode. 

And made a cruel fight. 

They fought until they both did sweat. 
With swords of tempered steel, 

Until the blood, like drops of rain. 
They trickling down did feel. 

" Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said ; 

" In faith I will thee bring 
Where thou shalt high advanced be 

By James, our Scottish king. 

Thy ransom I will freely give. 

And this report of thee, 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see." 

"No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, 

" Thy proffer I do scorn ; 
I will not yield to any Scot 

That ever yet was born." 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



857 



With that there came an arrow keen 

Out of an English bow, 
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart ; 

A deep and deadly blow ; 

Who never spake more words than 
these : 

" Eight on, my merry men all ; 
For why, my life is at an end ; 

Lord Percy sees my fall." 

Then leaving strife, Earl Percy took 
The dead man by the hand ; 

And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life 
Would I had lost my land. 

In truth, my very heart doth bleed 

With sorrow for thy sake ; 
For sure a more redoubted knight 

Mischance did never take." 

A knight amongst the Scots there was 

Who saw Earl Douglas die, 
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Fpon the Earl Percy. 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called, 
Who, with a spear full bright, 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran fiercely through the fight; 

And past the English archers all, 

Without a dread or fear ; 
And through Earl Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear ; 

With such vehement force and might 

He did his body gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth yard and more. 

So thus did both these nobles die. 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Earl was slain. 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth yard long 

To the hard head haled he. 



Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery 

So right the shaft he set. 
The gray goose wing that was thereon 

In his heart's blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day 

TiU setting of the sun : 
For when they rung the evening-bell, 

The battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Percy there were slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratchff, and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron. 

And with Sir George and stout Sir 
James, 

Both knights of good account, 
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, 

Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witherington my heart is wo 
That ever he slain should be. 

For when his legs were hewn in two. 
He knelt and fought on his knee. 

And with Earl Douglas there was slain 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foot would never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too — 

His sister's son was he ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

But saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

Did with Earl Douglas die : 
Of twenty hundi-ed Scottish spears. 

Scarce fifty-five did fly. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three ; 
The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain. 

Under the greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish 
tears, 
But all would not prevail. 



858 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, 




They bore with them away ; 


I'HE BALLAD OF AGINCOUET. 


They kissed them dead a thousand 




times, 


Faie stood the wind for France, 


Ere they were clad in clay. 


When we our sails advance, 




Nor now to prove our chance 


The news was brought to Edinburgh, 


Longer will tarry ; 


Where Scotland's king did reign, 


But putting to the main. 


That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 


At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 


o J 

"Was with an arrow slain : 


With all his martial train, 




Landed King Harry. 


"0 heavy news," King James did say; 




"Scotland can witness be 


And taking many a fort. 


I have not any captain more 


Furnished in warlike sort, 


Of such account as he." 


Marched towards Agincourt 




In happy hour — 


Like tidings to King Henry came 


Skirmishing day by day 


Within as short a space, 


With those that stopped his way, 


That Percy of Northumberland 


Where the French gen'ral lay 


Was slain in Chevy-Chase : 


With aU his power, 


" Now God be with him," said our king, 
" Since 't will no better be ; 


Which in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride. 


I trust I have within my realm 
Five hundred as good as he: 


His ransom to provide 

To the king sending; 
Which he neglects the while, 




As from a nation vile, 


Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say 


Yet, with an angry smile, 


But I will vengeance take : 


Their faU portending. 


I '11 be revenged on them all. 


, 


For brave Earl Percy's sake." 


And turning to his men, 




Quoth our brave Henry then : 


This vow full well the king performed 


Though they to one be ten, 


After at Humbledown ; 


Be not amazed ; 


In one day fifty knights were slain 


Yet have we well begun — 


With lords of high renown ; 


Battles so bravely won 




Have ever to the sun 


And of the rest, of small account, 


By fame been raised. 


Did many hundreds die : 
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy- 
Chase, 
Made by the Earl Percy. 


And for myself, quoth he," 
This ray full rest shaU be ; 


England ne'er mourn for me, 
Nor more esteem me. 




Victor I will remain. 


God save the king, and bless this land. 


Or on this earth lie slain ; 


With plenty, joy, and peace ; 


Never shall she sustain 


And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 


Loss to redeem me. 


'Twixt noblemen may cease ! 




AlTOKTMOUS. 


Poitiers and Cressy tell. 


• 


When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell ; 






No less our skill is 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 



859 



Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped. 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear — 
A braver man not there : 
O Lord ! how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone ; 
Armour on armour shone ; 
Drum now to drum did groan — 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake ; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

"Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham ! 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ; 
When, from a meadow by. 
Like a storm suddenly. 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses, 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
AiTows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung. 

Piercing the weather ; 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy : 
Arms were from shoulders sent ; 
Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 
Down the French peasants went ; 

Our men were hardy. 



This while our noble king, 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to o'erwhelm it ; 
And many a deep wound lent. 
His arms with blood besprent. 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood. 

With his brave brother — 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade ; 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made. 

Still as they ran up. 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and WiUoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry ; 
O, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen. 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry ? 

Michael Deattok 



THE OAVALIEE'S SONG-. 

A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde. 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde. 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And O ! the thundering presse of knightes, 

Whenas their war cryes swell, 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 



360 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Then mounte! tlien mounte, brave gallants 
all, 

And don your helmes amaine : 
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call 

Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 

TVhen the sword-hilt 's in our hand — 
Heart whole we '11 part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight. 

Thus weepe and puling crye ; 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die ! 

William Motherwell. 



BANNOOK-BUKK 

EOBEET BEUOE's ADDEESS TO HIS AEMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' "Wallace bled — 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led — 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie ! 

Now 's the day, and now 's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee I 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa' — 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty 's in every blow I 
Let us do, or die ! 

EOBEBT BtTENS. 



IVRY. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom 

all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry 

of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music 

and of dance. 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny 

vines, pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, EocheUe, our own Eochelle, proud 

city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy 

mourning daughters ; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous 

in our joy ; 
For cold and stiff and still are they who 

wrought thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned 

the chance of war ! 
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of 

Navarre. 



! how our hearts were beating, when, at 

the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in 

long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 

peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's 

Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 

curses of our land ; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a trun- 
cheon in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of 

Seine's empurpled flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled 

with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules 

the fate of war. 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry 

of Navarre. 



The King is come to marshal us, in all his 

armor drest ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon 

liis gallant crest. 



IVRY. 



36T 



He looked upon Lis people, and a tear was in 

Ms eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance 

was stern and high. 
Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled 

from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout : God 

save our lord the King ! 
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full 

well he may — 
For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody 

fray- 
Press where ye see my white plume shine 

amidst the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of 

Navarre." 

Hurmh ! the foes are moving. Hark to the 
mingled din, 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and 
roaring culverin. 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint 
Andre's plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle- 
men of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies — ^upon them with 
the lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- 
sand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind 
the snow-white crest ; 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, 
like a guiding star. 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel- 
met of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours : Ma- 
yenne hath turned his rein ; 

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flem- 
ish count is slain ; 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds be- 
fore a Biscay gale ; 

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and 
flags, and cloven mail. 

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all 
along our van. 

Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed 
from man to man. 



But out spake gentle Henry — " No French- 
man is my foe : 

Down, down, with every foreigner, but let 
your brethren go " — 

! was there ever such a knight, in friend- 
ship or in war. 

As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the sol- 
dier of Navarre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who 

fought for France to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them 

for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in 

fight; 
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the 

cornet white — 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white 

hath ta'en. 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag 

of false Lorraine. 
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide — that all the 

host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house 

which wrought his church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound 

their loudest point of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for 

Henry of Navarre. 

Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of 

Lucerne — 
"Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 

never shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican 

pistoles. 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy 

poor spearmen's souls. 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that 

your ai'ms be bright ; 
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch 

and ward to-night ; 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our 

God hath raised the slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the 

valor of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all 

glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry 

of Navarre ! 

Thomas Babington Macatjlay. 



362 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



KASEBY. 

0! WHEREFOEE come ye forth in triumpli 
from the North, 

With your hands and your feet, and your rai- 
ment all red? 

And wherefore do your rout send forth a 
joyous shout ? 

And whence are the grapes of the wine-press 
that ye tread ? 

0! evil was the root, and bitter was the 

fruit, 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 

we trod ; ^ 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty 

and the strong, 
"Who sate in the high places and slew the 

saints of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of 

June, 
That we saw their banners dance and their 

cuirasses shine. 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his 

long essenced hair. 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Eupert 

of the Ehine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and 
his sword, 

The General rode along us to form us for the 
fight; 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and 
swelled into a shout 

Among the godless horsemen upon the ty- 
rant's right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the biUow on the 

shore. 
The cry of battle rises along their charging 

line : . 
For God! for the Cause! for the Church ! for 

the Laws ! 
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of 

the Rhine ! 

The furious German comes, with his trumpets 
and his drums, 

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White- 
hall; 



They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your 

pikes ! Close your ranks ! 
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or 

to fall. 



They are here — they rush on — ^we are bro- 
ken — we are gone — 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on 
the blast. 

Lord, put forth thy might ! Lord, defend 
the right ! 

Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight 
it to the last I 

Stout Skippen hath a wound — ^the centre hath 

given ground. 
But hark! what means this trampling of 

horsemen in the rear ? 
What banner do I see, boys ? 'T is he ! thank 

God! 'tis he, boys! 
Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is 

here! 

Their heads are stooping low, their pikes all 

in a row : 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge 

on the dykes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of 

the Accurst, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of 

his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook 

to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on 

Temple Bar. 
And he — ^he turns ! he flies ! shame to those 

cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not 

look on war. 

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain, and ere ye 
strip the slain. 

First give another stab to make the quest se- 
cure; 

Then shake from sleeves ano! pockets their 
broad pieces and lockets. 

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 
poor. 



AN HORATIAN ODE. 



SOS 



Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and 
your hearts were gay and bold, 

When you kissed your lily hands to your le- 
mans to-day ; 

And to-morrow shall the fox from her cham- 
bers in the rocks 

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at 
heaven, and hell and fate ? 

And the fingers that once were so busy with 
your blades ? 

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches 
and your oaths ? 

Your stage-plays and your sonnets? your dia- 
monds and your spades ? 

Down ! down ! for ever down, with the mitre 
and the crown ! 

With the Belial of the Court, and the Mam- 
mon of the Pope ! 

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in 
Durham stalls; 

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop rends 
his cope. 

And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her 

children's ills. 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of 

England's sword ; 
And the Kings of earth in fear shall tremble 

when they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the 

Houses and the Word ! 

Thomas Babington Maoattlat. 



GIVE A ROUSE. 



King Charles, and who '11 do him right now ' 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now' 
Give a rouse : here 's in Hell's despite now, 
King Charles ! 

II. 

Who gave me the goods that went since? 
Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
Who found me in wine you drank once ? 



King Ghanrles^ and who HI do Mm right now ? 
King Gha/rles^ and who''s ripe for Jight now ? 
Give a rouse : here 's in HelVs despite now, 
King Charles! 

in. 

To whom used my boy George quaff else. 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else. 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? 
King Gharles, and who HI do him right now f 
King Gharles, and who 's ripe for fight now f 
Give a rouse : here 's in HelVs despite now^ 
King Gharles! 

EOBEET BEOWNIHa. 



AlsT HOEATIAN ODE, 
UPON oeomwell's eetuen feom ieeland. 

The forward youth that would appear, 
Must now forsake his Muses dear ; 

Nor in the shadows sing 

His numbers languishing. 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armor's rust ; 

Removing from the wall 

The corslet of the hall. 

So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace, 

But through adventurous war 

IJrged his active star ; 

And like the three-forked lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nm*st, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide. 

For 'tis all one to courage high. 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And, with such, to enclose 

Is more than to oppose. 

Then burning through the air he went, 

And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Csesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 



864 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The ^ce of angry heaven's flame ; 
And, if we would speak true, 
Mucli to the man is due, 


This was that memorable hour. 
Which first assured the forced power ; 

So, when they did design 

The Capitol's first line. 


Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere, 

(As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot,) 


A bleeding head, where they begun, 
Did fright the architects to run ; 
And yet in that the state 
Foresaw its happy fate. 


Could by industrious valor climb 
To ruin the great work of time, 
And cast the kingdoms old 
Into another mould! 


And now the Irish are ashamed 
To see themselves in one year tamed ; 
So much one man can do. 
That does both act and know. 


Though Justice against Fate complain. 
And plead the ancient rights in vain— 
But those do hold or break. 
As men are strong or weak. 


They can affirm his praises best. 
And have, though overcome, confest 
How good he is, how just. 
And fit for highest trust : 


ISTature, that hateth emptiness. 

Allows of penetration less. 

And therefore must make room 
"Where greater spirits come. 


Nor yet grown stiffer by command, 
But still in the Kepublic's hand, 
How fit he is to sway 
That can so well obey. 


What field of aU the civil war. 
Where his were not the deepest scar? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art : 


He to the Commons' feet presents 
A kingdom for his first year's rents , 
And, what he may, forbears 
His fame to make it theirs: 


Where, twining subtle fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case ; 


And has his sword and spoils ungirt. 
To lay them at the Public's skirt. 
So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky, 


That thence the royal actor borne, 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 
While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands, 


She, having killed, no more does search 
But on the next green bough to perch ; 
Where, when he first does lure, 
The falconer has her sure. 


He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene ; 
But with his keener eye 
The axe's edge did try : 


What may not then our isle presume, 
While victory his crest does plume ? 
What may not others fear 
If thus he crowns each year? 


Kor called the gods, with vulgar spite, 
To vindicate his helpless right ; 

But bowed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 


As Cassar he, ere long, to Gaul ; 

To Italy an Hannibal ; 

And to all states not free 
Shall climacteric be. 



SONNETS. 



366 



The Pict no shelter now shall find 
Within his parti-colored mind ; 
But from this valor sad 
Shrink underneath the plaid, 

Happy, if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake, 

IsTor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, 

March indefatigably on; 
And, for the last effect. 
Still keep the sword erect ! 

Besides the force it has to fright 

The spirits of the shady night. 
The same arts that did gain 
A power/ must it maintain. 

Andeew Mab-vtell. 



SONNETS. 

TO THE LOED GEKEEAL CEOMWELL. 

Ceomwell, our chief of men, who through a 

cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 

ploughed. 
And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work 

pursued, 
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots 

imbrued. 
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 
And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much 

remains 
To conquer still ; peace hath her victories 
No less renowned than war. New foes arise 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular 

chains : 
Help us to save free conscience from the 

paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 

maw. 



ON THE DETEA0t!0N WHICH FOLLOWED UPON 
MY WEITING OEETAIN TEEATISES. 

I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs 
By the known rules of ancient liberty. 
When straight a barbarous noise environs 
me 

Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and 



As when those hinds that were transformed 
to frogs 
Eailed at Latona's twin-bom progeny, 
Which after held the sun and moon in 
fee. 
But this is got by casting pearl to hogs, 
That bawl for freedom in their senseless 
mood. 
And still revolt when truth would set them 

free. 
License they mean when they cry Liberty ; 
For who loves that must first be wise and 
good; 
But from that mark how far they rove we 
see, 
For all this waste of wealth, and loss of 
blood. 



TO OYEIAO SKINNEE. 

Oteiao, this three years day these eyes, tho' 
clear 
To outward view of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the 
year. 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a 

jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and 
steer 
Eight onward. What supports me, dost thou 
ask? 
The conscience, friend, t' have lost them 

overplied 
In liberty's defence, my noble task, 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the 

world's vain mask. 
Content though blind, had I no better guide. 
John Milton, 



866 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 




The shouting has ceased, 


WREN BAIJTNERS ARE WAYIKG. 


And the flashing of cannon! 




I looked from the turret 


I. 


For crescent and pennon: 


When banners are waving, 


As flax touched by flre. 


And lances a- pushing ; 


As hail in the river, 


When captains are shouting, 


They were smote, they were fallen. 


And war-horses rushing ; 


And had melted for ever. 


When cannon are roaring, 


Anonymotts. 


And hot bullets flying. 
He that would honor win, 




* 


Must not fear dying. 




11. 


THE COVENANTERS' BATTLE-CHANT. 


Though shafts fly so thick 




That it seems to be snowing ; 


To battle! to battle! 


Though streamlets with blood 


To slaughter and strife ! 


More than water are flowing ; 


For a sad, broken Covenant 


Though with sabre and bullet 


We barter poor life. 


Our bravest are dying, 


The great God of Judah 


We speak of revenge, but 


Shall smite with our hand. 


We ne'er speak of flying. 


And break down the idols 




That cumber the land. 


m. 

Come, stand to it, heroes ! 


Uplift every voice 


The heathen are coming ; 


In prayer, and in song; 


Horsemen are round the walls, 


Remember the battle 


Eiding and running ; 


Is not to the strong ; — 


Maidens and matrons all 


Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 


Arm ! arm ! are crying , 


And onward they come. 


From petards the wildfire's 


To the vain noise of trumpet, 


Flashing and flying. 


Of cymbal, and drum. 
They haste to the onslaught, 




The trumpets from turrets high 


With hagbut and spear ; 


Loudly are braying ; 


They lust for a banquet 


The steeds for the onset 


That 's deathful and dear. 


Are snorting and neighing ; 


Now horseman and footman 


As waves in the ocean, 


Sweep down the hiU-side ; 


The dark plumes are dancing ; 


They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 


As stars in the blue sky, 


To die in their pride ! 


The helmets are glancing. 




Their ladders are planting. 


See, long plume and pennon 


Their sabres are sweeping; 


Stream gay in the air ! 


Now swords from our sheaths 


They are given us for slaughter, — 


By the thousand are leaping ; 


Shall God's people spare ? 


Like the flash of the levin 


Nay, nay ; lop them off- 


Ere men hearken thunder. 


Friend, father, and son ; 


Swords gleam, and the steel caps 


All earth is athu-st tiU 


Are cloven asunder. 


The good work be done. 



THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM. 



367 



Brace tight every buckler, 

And lift high the sword ! 
For biting must blades be 

That fight for the Lord. 
Eemember, remember, 

How saints' blood was shed, 
As free as the rain, and 

Homes desolate made ! 

Among them ! — among them ! 

Unburied bones cry : 
Avenge us, — or, like us, 

Faith's true martyrs die ! 
Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 

Slay on, and spare none ; 
Then shout forth in gladness, 

Heaven's battle is won ! 

WnXLAM MOTHEEWELL. 



THE CAMEROmAls^'S DREAM. 

In a dream of the night I was wafted away 
To the muirland of mist, where the martyrs 

lay; 
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are 

seen. 
Engraved on the stone where the heather 

grows green. 

' Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and 
blood 

"When the minister's home was the mountain 
and wood ; 

When in Wellwood's dark valley the stand- 
ard of Zion, 

All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was 
lying. 

Twas morning ; and Summer's young sun 
from the east 

Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's 
breast ; 

On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shin- 
ing dew 

Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and 
mountain flowers blue. 



And far up inlieaven, near the white sunny 

cloud, 
The song of the lark was melodious and 

loud; 
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened 

and deep. 
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating 

of sheep. 

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music 
and gladness— 

The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty 
and redness ; 

Its daughters were happy to hail the return- 
ing, 

And drink the delight of July's sweet morn- 
ing. 

But, O ! there were hearts cherished far other 

feelings, 
niumed by the light of prophetic reveal- 

ings; 
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but 

sorrow, 
For they knew that their blood would bedew 

it to-morrow. 

' Twas the few faithM ones who with Cam- 
eron were lying 

Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath- 
fowl was crying ; 

For the horsemen of EarlshaU around them 
were hovering. 

And their bridle reins rung through the thin 

misty covering. 

• 

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were 
unsheathed. 

But the vengeance that darkened their brow 
was unbreathed ; 

With eyes turned to heaven in calm resigna- 
tion. 

They sang their last song to the God of Sal- 
vation. 

The hills with the deep mournful music were 
ringing. 

The curlew and plover in concert were sing- 
ing; 



368 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



But the melody died 'mid derision and laugh- 
ter, 

As the host of imgodlj rushed on to the 
slaughter. 

Though in mist, and in darkness and fire, 

they were shrouded, 
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and 

unclouded ; 
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as firm 

and unbending. 
They stood like the rock which the thunder 

is rending. 

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords 

were gleaming. 
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood 

was streaming, 
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was 

rolling, 
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the 

mighty were falling. 

When the righteous had fallen, and the com- 
bat was ended, 

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud de- 
scended ; 

Its drivers were angels on horses of white- 
ness. 

And its burning wheels turned upon axles of 
brightness. 

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shin- 
ing, 

All dazzling like gold of the seventh refin- 
ing, 

And the souls that came forth out of great 
tribulation, 

Have mounted the chariots and steeds of 
salvation. 

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is 
gliding, 

Through the path of the thunder the horse- 
men are riding — 

Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is be- 
fore ye — 

A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory ! 

James Hyslop. 



THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. 

To wear the blue I think it best, 

Of a' the colors that I see ; 
And I '11 wear it for the gallant Grahams 

That are banished frae their ain countrie. 

I 'U crown them east, I '11 crown them west, 
The bravest lads that e'er I saw ; 

They bore the gree in free fighting, 
And ne'er were slack their swords to draw. 

They wan the day wi' Wallace wight ; 

They were the lords o' the south countrie ; 
Cheer up your hearts, brave cavaliers, 

Till the gallant Grahams come o'er the 
sea. 

At the Gouk head, where their camp was 
set. 

They rade the white horse and the gray, 
A' glancing in their plated armor. 

As the gowd shines in a Summer's day. 

But woe to Hacket, and Strachan baith, 
And ever an ill death may they die, 

For they betrayed the gallant Grahams, 
That aye were true to Majesty. 

Now fare ye weel, sweet Ennerdale, 
Baith kith and kin that I could name ; 

0, I would sell my silken snood 
To see the gallant Grahams come hamo. 

AlfONYMOTJS. 



LOOHABER NO MORE. 

Faeewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my 

Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day 

been! 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
We '11 maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on war, 
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody 

shore. 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 



CHARLIE IS 


MY DARLING. 369 


Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 


When you hear the trumpet's sound 


They '11 ne'er make a tempest like that in my 


Tuttie taittie to the drums. 


mind; 


Up wi' swords and down wi' guns, 


Though loudest of thunder on louder waves 


And to the loons again ! 


roar, 


Fill, Jill your bumpers high; 


That '3 naething like leaving my love on the 


Drain, drain your glasses dry ; 


shore. 


Out upon him f—Jie ! 0, Jie /— 


To leave thee hehind me my heart is sair 


TTiat winna do 'i again. 


pained ; 




By ease that's inglorious no fame can be 


Here 's to the King 0' Swede ! 


gained ; 
And beauty and love 's the reward of the 

brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 


Fresh laurels crown his head ! 
Shame fa' every sneaking blade 


That winna do 't again ! 

Fill, Jill your lumpers high ; 




Drain, drain your glasses dry ; 


Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my ex- 


Out upon him I— Jie ! 0, Jie I— 


cuse; 


That winna do H again. 


Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 




Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. 
And without thy favor I 'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I '11 bring a heart to thee with love running 


But to make a' things right now, 
He that drinks maun fight too. 
To show his heart 's upright too, 
And that he '11 do 't again. 
Fill, fill your lumpers high ; 


o'er. 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no 


Drain, drain your glasses dry ; 
Out upon him !—Jie ! 0,Jie! — 


more. 

Allan Eamsay. 


That winna do H again. 

Anontjioxts. 


HERE'S TO THE KING, SIR! 


CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. 


Heee 's to the King, sir ! 


' TwAS on a Monday morning 


Ye ken wha I mean, sir — 


Richt early in the year. 


And to every honest man 


That Charlie cam' to our toun, 


That wiU do 't again! 


The young Chevalier. 


Mil, Jill your bumpers high; 


And Charlie he '« my darling, 


Drain, drain your glasses dry ; 


My darling, my darling ; 


Out upon him !—fie ! 0, f,e ! — 


Cha/rlie he 's my darling, 


That winna do H again* 


The young Ghe'oalier ! 


Here 's to the chieftains 


As he was walking up the street, 


Of the gallant Highland clans ! 


The city for to view. 


They hae done it mair nor ance. 


0, there he spied a bonnie lass 


And will do 't again. 


The window looking through. 


Fill, Jill your lumpers high ; 


And Charlie he 's my darling, 


Brain, drain your glasses dry; 


My darling, my darling ; 


Out upon him !—Jie ! 0, Jie ! — 


Charlie he 's my darling. 


That winna do H again^ 
24 


The young Chevalier / 



870 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


Saylicht 'she jumped up the stair, 


They '11 live or die wi' fame, Willie! 


And tirled at the pin ; 


They 'U live or die wi' fame; 


And wha sae ready as hersel' 


But soon, wi' sounding victorie. 


To let the laddie in? 


May Kenmure's lord come hame. 


And Charlie he 's my darling^ 




My darling^ my darling ; 


Here 's him that 's far awa, Willie ! 


Charlie he 's my darling^ 


Here 's him that 's far awa ; 


The young Chevalier ! 


And here 's the flower that I love best — 




The rose that 's like the snaw ! 


He set his Jenny on his knee, 


KOBEBT BiTENS. 


All in his Highland dress ; 

nn 1 T 111 *1jT 




For brawly "weel he kenned the way 


• 


To please a bonnie lass. 




And Charlie he 's my darling, 


HERE 'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT 'S 


My darling, my darling ; 


AWA. 


Charlie he 's my darling, 




The young Chevalier! 


Heee 's a health to them that 's awa, 




And here 's to them that 's awa ; 


It 's up yon heathery mountain, 


And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 


And down yon scroggy glen. 


May never guid luck be their fa' ! 


We daurna gang a-milking, 


It 's guid to be merry and wise, 


For Charlie and his men. 


It 's guid to be honest and true. 


And Charlie he 's my darling, 


It 's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 


My darling, my darling ; 


And bide by the buff and the blue. • 


Charlie he 's my darling. 




The young Chevalier! 


Here 's a health to them that 's awa, 


Anontmous. 


And here 's to them that 's awa ; 




Here 's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the 
clan, 
Altho' that his band be sma'. 




■KENMUEE'S ON AND AWA. 


May liberty meet wi' success ! 


0, Kenmuee 's on and awa, Willie ! 


May prudence protect her fra evil ! 


0, Kenmure 's on and awa ! 


May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist. 


And Kenmure's lord 's the bravest lord 


And wander their way to the devil ! 


That ever Galloway saw. 


Here 's a health to them that 's awa, 


Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 


And here 's to them that 's awa ; 


Success to Kenmure's band ; 


Here 's a health to Tammie, the Norland lad- 


There 's no a heart that fears a Whig 


die, 


That rides by Kenmure's hand. 


That lives at the lug o' the law ! 




Here 's freedom to him that wad read, 


Here 's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 


Here 's freedom to him that wad write ! 


Here 's Kenmure's health in wine ; 


There's nane ever feared that the truth 


There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 


should be heard 


blude, 


But they wham the truth wad indite. 


Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 






Here 's a health to them that 's awa, 


0, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 


And here 's to them that 's awa ; 


0, Kenmure's lads are men ; 


Here 's Maitland and Wycombe, and wha 


Their hearts and swords are metal true — 


does na like 'em 


And that their faes shall ken. 


We '11 build in a hole o' the wa'. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



37 1 



Here 's timmer that 's red at the heart, 
Here 's fruit that 's sound at the core ! 

May he that would turn the buff and blue coat 
Be turned to the back o' the door. 

Here 's a health to them that 's awa, 

And here 's to them that 's awa ; 
Here 's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth 
gowd, 

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here 's friends on baith sides o' the Forth, 

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed ; 
And wha would betray old Albion's rights, 

May they never eat of her bread ! 

KOBEKT BtJENS. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

WiZAED — ^LOOHIEL. 



LocHiEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle 

array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in 

fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 

crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them 

down! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the 

slain. 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the 

plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning 

of war 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, oh GlenuUin! whose bride shall 

await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the 

gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led — 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the 

dead; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the 

brave. 



LOOHIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling 

seer! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

WIZAED. 

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to 

scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall 

be torn ! 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark rolling clouds of 

the north ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he 

rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on 

high! 
Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is 

nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to 

the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament 

cast? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, aU dreadfully 

driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 

heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' 

height. 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to 

burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where 

it stood. 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 

brood. 



False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my 

clan; 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are 

one! 
They are true to the last of their blood and 

their breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of 

death. 



872 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to tbe 

shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on 

the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to Mb cause, 
"When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory 

crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the 

proud. 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

WIZAED. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would re- 
veal; 

'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

"With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugi- 
tive king. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of 
wrath, 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from 
my sight : 

Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his 
flight ! 

'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on 
the moors : 

Oulloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron- bound prisoner ? 
where ? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, 
forlorn. 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and 
torn? 

Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling. O ! Mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony 
swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet. 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases 
to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the 
gale 



LOCHIEL, 

Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the 

tale! 
For never shall Albin a destiny meet 
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed 

in their gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten 

shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom re- 
mains. 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the 

foe! 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed 
of fame. 

Thomas Campbell. 



BORDER BALLAD. 

Maeoh, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 
Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ! 
All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border ! 
Many a banner spread 
Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 
Mount and make ready, then. 
Sons of the mountain glen. 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 
glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are 
grazing; 
Come from the glen of the buck and the 
roe; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the 
bow. 

Trumpets are sounding ; 
War-steeds are bounding ; 
Stand to your arms, and march in good order. 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

SiE Walter Scott. 



WAE 'S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. 373 


PIBROCH OF DOFUIL DHU. 


TVAE'S MF. FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. 


Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 


A WEE bird came to our ha' door ; 


Pibroch of Donuil, 


He warbled sweet and clearly ; 


Wake thj wild voice anew^ 


And aye the o'ercome o' his sang 
Was "Vae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 


Summon Clan-Conuil ! 


Come away, come away — 


! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 


Hark to the summons ! 


The tears came drapping rarely ; 


Come in your war array. 


I took my bonnet aff my head. 


Gentles and Commons. 


For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 


Come from deep glen, and 


Quoth I: "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, 


From mountain so rocky ; 


Is that a tale ye borrow ? 


The war-pipe and pennon 


Or is't some words yeVe learnt by rote, 


Are at Inverlochy. 


Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow ? " 


Come every hill-plaid, and 


" ! no, no, no ! " the wee bird sang, 


True heart that wears one ; 


"I've flown sin' morning early; 


Come every steel blade, and 


But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — 


Strong hand that bears one. 


! wae's me for Prince Charlie! 


Leave untended the herd. 


On hills that are by right his ain 


The flock without shelter ; 


He roams a lonely stranger ; 


Leave the corpse uninterred, 


On ilka hand he 's pressed by want, 


The bride at the altar ; 


On ilka side by danger. 


Leave the deer, leave the steer, 


Yestreen I met him in the glen, 


Leave nets and barges ; 


My heart near bursted fairly ; 


Come with your fighting gear, 


For sadly changed indeed was he — 


■ Broadswords and targes. 


! wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! 


Come as the winds come when 


Dark night came on ; the tempest howled 


Forests are rended ; 


Out owre the bills and vaUeys ; 


Come as the waves come when 


And whare was 't that your Prince lay down, 


Navies are stranded ! 


Whase hame should be a palace ? 


Faster come, faster come. 


He rowed bim in a Highland plaid, 


Faster and faster — 


Which covered him but sparely, 


Chief, vassal, page, and groom. 


And slept beneath a bush o' broom — 


Tenant and master ! 


! wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " 


Fast they come, fast they come — 


But now the bird saw some red coats. 


See how they gather ! 


And he shook his wings wi' anger : 


"Wide waves the eagle plume. 


" 0, this is no a land for me — 


Blended with heather. 


I '11 tarry here nae langer." 


Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 


A while he hovered on the wing, 


Forward each man set ! 


Ere he departed fairly ; 


Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 


But weel I mind the farewell strain. 


Knell for the onset ! 


'T was " Wae 's me for Prmce Charlie ! " 


SiE "Walter Scott. 


William Glen. 





374 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



HAME, HAME, HAME! 

Hame, hame, hame ! Lame I fain would be ! 

hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is 
on the tree, * 

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain coun- 
trie. 

Hame. Tiame^ Jiame! liame I fain would le! 

Jiame^ hame^ hame^ to my ain countrie ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning now to 

fa'; 
The bonnie white rose, it is withering an' a' ; 
But we '11 water it wi' the bluid of usurping 

tyrannie, 
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie ! 
Eame^ hame^ hame ! hame I fain would le ! 
hame^ hame^ hame, to my ain countrie ! 

there 's nocht now frae ruin my countrie 
can save. 

But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave. 

That a' the noble martyrs who died for loy- 
altie 

May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. 

Hame, hame, hame! hame I fain would le! 

hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The great now are gone wha attempted to save. 
The green grass is growing abune their 

grave ; 
Yet the sun through the mist seems to prom- 
ise to me, 
"I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." 
Hame, hame, hame ! hame Ifain would le! 
hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
Allan Cxtniongham. 



THE SUN" RISES BRIGHT IN" FRANCE. 

The sun rises bright in France, 

And fair sets he ; 
But he has tint the blythe blink he had 

In my ain countrie. 
gladness comes to many, 

But sorrow comes to me, 
As I look o'er the wide ocean 

To my ain countrie. 



it 's nae my ain ruin 

That saddens aye my e'e, 
But the love I left in Galloway, 

Wi' bonnie bairnies three. 
My hamely hearth burnt bonnie, 

An' smiled my fair Marie : 

1 've left my heart behind me 

In my ain countrie. 

The bud comes back to summer, 

And the blossom to the bee ; 
But I '11 win back — never, 

To my ain countrie. 
I 'm leal to the high Heaven, 

Which will be leal to me, 
An' there I '11 meet ye a' sune 

Frae my ain countrie. 

AlLAK CcrNNEfGHAM. 



SONG. 



As by the shore, at break of day, 
A vanquished chief expiring lay, 
Upon the sands, with broken sword, 

He traced his farewell to the free ; 
And, there, the last unfinished word 

He dying wrote, was " Liberty ! " 

At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell 
Of him who thus for Freedom fell ; 
The words he wrote, ere evening came. 

Were covered by the sounding sea ; — 
So pass away the cause and name 

Of him who dies for Liberty ! 

Thomas Mooeb. 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise. 

Now feel that pulse no more. 



SHAN VAN YOCHT. 



3Y6 



No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks 

To show that stiU she lives. 

Thomas Mooeb. 



PEACE TO THE SLUMBEREES. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

They lie on the battle-plain, 
With no shrond to cover them ; 

The dew and the summer rain 
Are all that weep over them. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

Vain was their bravery ! 

The faUen oak lies where it lay 
Across the wintry river ; 

But brave hearts, once swept away, 
Are gone, alas ! forever. 

Vain was their bravery ! 

"Woe to the conqueror ! 

Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs 
Of whom his sword bereft us. 

Ere we forget the deep arrears 

Of vengeance they have left us ! 

"Woe to the conqueror ! 

Thomas Mooee. 



ODE. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
"When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins. 



SHAN" VAN VOOHT. 

O ! the French are on the say, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
The French are on the say, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ! 
! the French are in the bay ; 
They '11 be here without delay, 
And the Orange wiU decay. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
! the French are in the tay^ 
They HI 'be here by break of day^ 
And the Orange will decay ^ 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And where wiU they have their camp ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
Where will they have their camp ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
On the Om'rach of Kildare ; 
The boys they wiU be there 
With their pikes in good repair, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
To the Currach of Kildare 
The boys they tcill repair^ 
And Lord Edward tcill be there^ 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Then what wiU the yeomen do ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What wUl the yeomen do ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
What should the yeomen do, 
But throw off the Eed and Blue, 
And swear that they 'U be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht ? 
What should the yeoman do, 
But throw off the Red and Blue^ 
And swear that they HI be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht I 

And what color wiU they wear ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What color will they wear ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What color should be seen. 
Where our fathers' homes have been. 
But our own immortal Green ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 



3Y6 



POEMS OF AMBITION, 



What color sTiould he seen, 
Where our fathers'' homes have deen, 
But our own immortal Green? 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 



And will Ireland then be free ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
"Will Ireland then be free ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ! 
Yes ! Ireland shall be free, 
From the centre to the sea ; 
Then hurra ! for Liberty ! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Yes ! Ireland shall lefree, 
From the centre to the sea ; 
Then hurra 1 for Liberty I 
Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

Anokymotjs. 



GOD SAVE THE KING. 

God save our gracious King ! 
Long live our noble King ! 

God save the King ! 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us — 

God save the King ! 

O, Lord our God, arise ! 
Scatter his enemies, 

And make them fall ; 
Confound their politics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks ; 
On him our hopes we fix, 

God save us aU ! 

Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour ; 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice — 

God save the King I 

Anonymotts. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 

I SPEANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he : 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 
three ; 

" Good speed ! " cried the watch as the gate- 
bolts undrew, 

"Speed! " echoed the wall to us galloping 
through. 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to 
rest. 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great 
pace — 

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never chang- 
ing our place ; 

I turned in my saddle and made its girths 
tight, 

Then shortened each stirrup and set the 
pique right, 

Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker 
the bit, 

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas a moonset at starting ; but while we 
drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawn- 
ed clear ; 

At Boom a great yellow star came out to 
see; 

At Diiffeld 'twas morning as plain as could 
be; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard 
the half-chime — 

So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is 
time ! 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every 

one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping 

past; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze as some bluff river headland its 

spray ; 



INDIAN DEATH SONG. 



Z11 



And his low head and crest, just one sharp 

ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on 

his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that 

glance 
O'er its white edge at me, its own master, 

askance; 
And the thick heavy Ipume-flakes, which aye 

and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 



By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 

" Stay spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not 

in her ; 
We '11 remember at Aix" — for one heard the 

quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and 

staggering knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the 

flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and 

sank. 



So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the 
sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 

' Neath om' feet broke the brittle, bright stub- 
ble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 
white. 

And " Gallop " gasped Joris, " for Aix is in 
sight ! " 



"How they'll greet us! " — and all in a mo- 
ment his roan 

RoUed neck and croup over, lay dead as a 
stone ; 

And there was my Eoland to bear the whole 
weight 

Of the news which alone could save Aix from 
her fate, 

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the 
brim. 

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' 
rim. 



Then I cast loose my buff- coat, each holster 

let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and 

aU, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his 

ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 

without peer — 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any 

noise, bad or good. 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and 

stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round, 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on 
the ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland 
of mine. 

As I poured down his throat our last meas- 
ure of wine, 

"Which (the burgesses voted by common con- 
sent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good 
news from Ghent. 

EOBEET BkOWKIKG. 



INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun 
the day ; 

But glory remains when their lights fade 
away. 

Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in 
vain. 

For the son of Alknomook will never com- 
plain. 

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; 

Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid 
low! 

Why so slow ? do you wait till I shrink from 
the pain? 

No ! the son of Alknomook shaU never com- 
plain. 

Remember the wood where in ambush we 

lay, 
And the scalps which we bore from your 

nation away. 



378 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


Kow the flame rises fast, you exult in my 


Where with beasts of chase each wood, 


pain ; 


Where with birds each tree, 


But tlie son of Allvnomook can never com- 


Where with fish is every flood 


plain. 


Stocked full pleasantly. 


r go to the land where my father is gone ; 


He above with spirits feeds ; — 


His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 


We, alone and dim, 


Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from 


Left to celebrate hi^ deeds, 


pain; 


And to bury him. 


And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to 




complain. 

Anite Httntbe. 


Bring the last sad offerings hither ; 


Chant the death-lament ; 




All inter, with him together. 




That can him content. 


INDIAN D-RATH-SONG. 


'Neath his head the hatchet hide 




That he swung so strong ; 




And the bear's ham set beside, — 


Ox the mat he 's sitting there — 
See ! he sits upright — 


For the way is long ; 


With the same look that he ware 




When he saw the light. 


Then the knife — sharp let it be — 




That from foeman's crown, 




Quick, with dexterous cuts but three. 


But where now the hand's clenched 


Skin and tuft brought down ; 


weight? 




Where the hreath he drew, 


Paints, to smear his frame about. 


That to the Great Spirit late 


Set within his hand. 


Forth the pipe-smoke blew ? 


That he redly may shine out 




In the spirits' land. 


Where the eyes that, falcon-keen. 


Feedebicb: Schulee. (German.) 


Marked the reindeer pass. 


Translation of N. L. Feothingham. 


By the dew upon the green, 




By the waving grass? 






These the limbs that, unconfined. 


THE TANDING OF THE PILGKIM 


Bounded through the snow. 


FATHEES IN NEW ENGLAND. 


Like the stag that 's twenty-tyned. 




Like the mountain roe ! 


"Look now abroad — another race has filled 




Those populous borders— wide the wood recedes, 




And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; 


These the arms that, stout and tense, 


The land is full of harvests and green meads." 


Did the bow-string twang ! 


Betant. 


See, the life is parted hence ! 
See, how loose they hang ! 








The breaking waves dashed high. 


Well for him ! he 's gone his ways. 


On a stern and rock-bound coast. 


Where are no more snows ; 


And the woods against a stormy sky 


Where the fields are decked with maize 


Their giant branches tossed; 


That unplanted grows ; — 





< 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM. 



3Y9 



And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
"When a hand of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New-England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 
And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods 
rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither th-ere. 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine I 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod. 
They have left unstained what there they 
found — 
Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Hemans. 



CAEMEN BELLICOSUM. 

In their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
When the Grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When the files 
Of the isles. 
From the smoky night encampment, bore the 
banner of the rampant 
Unicorn, 
And grummer, grummer, grummer roUed the 
roll of the drummer, 
Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal. 

Stood our sires ; 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires ; 
As the roar 
On the shore, 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the 
green-sodded acres 
Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the 
black gunpowder. 
Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoniers ; 
And the " villainous saltpetre " 
Rang a fierce, discordant metre 
Eound their ears ; 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse- 
guards' clangor 
On our flanks. 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old- 
fashioned fire 

Through the ranks ! 

Then the old-fashioned Colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 
Powder-cloud ; 



380 



POEMS OF AMBITION, 



And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch 
of the leaden 
Eifle-breath. 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the 
iron six-pounder. 
Hurling death ! 

GXJY HUMPHEEY McMASTEE. 



SONG OF MAEION'S MEK 

OuE band is few, but true and tried. 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass. 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear. 
When, waking to then* tents on fire. 

They grasp their arms in vain. 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 
And they who fly in terror, deem 

A mighty host behind. 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toU ; 
We talk the battle over. 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout. 

As if a hunt were up. 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 



With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlight plain ; 
'T is life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp— 

A moment — and away! 
Back to the pathless forest. 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming. 
With smiles like those of Summer, 

And tears like those of Spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 

William Cttllen Bbyant. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

0! SAT, can you see by the dawn's early 
light 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's 
last gleaming — 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through 
the perilous fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gal- 
lantly streaming ! 

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- 
ing in air 

Gave proof through the night that our flag 
was still there ; 

0! say, does that star-spangled banner yet 
wave 

O'er the land of the free, and the home of 
the brave ? 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 381 


On that shore, dimly seen through the mists 


' 


of the deep, 


THE AlVrREIOAN FLAG. 


Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 




reposes, 


I. 


"What is that which the breeze, o'er the tow- 


"When Freedom from her mountain height 


ering steep, 


Unfurled her standard to the air, 


As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now dis- 


She tore the azure robe of night, 


closes ? 


And set the stars of glory there ; 


Now it catches the gleam of the m'orning's 


She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 


first beam, 


The milky baldric of the skies, 


In full glory reflected, now shines on the 


And striped its pure, celestial white 


stream ; 


With streakings of the morning light ; 


'Tis the star-spangled banner; long may it 


Then from his mansion in the sun 


wave 


She called her eagle bearer down. 


O'er the land of the free, and the home of the 


And gave into his mighty hand 


brave ! 


The symbol of her chosen land. 


And where is that band who so vauntingly 


n. 


swore 


Majestic monarch of the cloud! 


That the havoc of war and the battle's con- 


Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 


fusion 


To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 


A home and a country should leave us no 


And see the lightning lances driven. 


more? 


When strive the warriors of the storm. 


Their blood has washed out their foul foot- 


And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 


steps' pollution. 


Child of the sim ! to thee 'tis given 


InTo refuge could save the hireling and slave 


To guard the banner of the free, 


From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the 


To hover in the sulphur smoke. 


grave ; 


To ward away the battle-stroke, 


And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth 


And bid its blendings shine afar, 


wave 


Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 


O'er the land of the free, and the home of the 


The harbingers of victory ! 


brave. 


III. 


0! thus be it ever, when freemen shall 


Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 


stand 


The sign of hope and triumph high. 


Between their loved homes and the war's 


When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 


desolation ! 


And the long line comes gleaming on; 


Blest with victory and peace, may the heav- 


Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 


en-rescued land 


Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 


Praise the power that hath made and pre- 


Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 


served us a nation. 


To where thy sky-born glories burn. 


Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just ; 


And, as his springing steps advance. 


And this be our motto — "In God is our 


Catch war and vengeance from the glance ; 


trust "— 


And when the cannon-mouthings loud 


And the spar-spangled banner in triumph 


Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud, 


shall wave 


And gory sabres rise and fall. 


O'er the land of the free, and the home of the 


Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall ; 


brave. 


Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, 


Feancis Scott Kjey. 


And cowering foes shall sink beneath 




Each gallant arm that strikes below 




That lovely messenger of death. 



882 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale, 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 

Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee. 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

v. 
Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given ; 
The stars have lit the welkin dome, 

Ajid all thy hues were born in heaven. 
For ever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
"With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 
Joseph Eodman Deake, 



"O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY EACE.' 

O MOTHEE of a mighty race. 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
Admire and hate thy blooming years ; 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red ; 
Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones. 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons ! 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy children bide — 



How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the vaUey shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the West ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes, 
And where the ocean border foams. 

There 's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds. 
Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. 

Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies, 
The thronging years in glory rise, 

And, as they fleet. 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
And when thy sisters, elder born. 
Would brand thy name with words of scorn. 

Before thine eye 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 

WlXLIAM CtlXUEN BkTANT. 



OUR STATE. 

The South-land boasts its teeming cane, 
The prairied West its heavy grain, 
And sunset's radiant gates unfold 
On rising marts and sands of gold ! 

Rough, bleak and hard, our little State 
Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; 
Her yellow sands are sands alone. 
Her only mines are ice and stone ! 

From Autumn fi*ost to April rain, 
Too long her winter woods complain ; 
From budding flower to falling leaf. 
Her summer time is aU too brief. 



1 



THE OLD CONSTITUTION. 



383 



Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands. 
And wintry hills, the school-house stands ; 
And what her rugged soil denies 
The harvest of the mind supplies. 

The riches of the commonwealth 
Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; 
And more to her than gold or grain 
The cunning hand and cultured brain. 

For well she keeps her ancient stock. 
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; 
And still maintains, with milder laws. 
And clearer light, the Good Old Cause ! 

For heeds the sceptic's puny hands, 

"While near her school the church-spire 

stands ; 

'Not fears the blinded bigot's rule, 

"While near her church-spire stands the 

school ! 

John Geeenleap WHrmEE. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave — 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hiU, 

And beU of wandering kine are heard. 

Ko solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering 
wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry — 

0, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life 



A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof. 
The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shaU dwell, at last. 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again — 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. 
When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who feU in battle here ! 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

William Cttllen Bktant. 



THE OLD CONSTITUTION". 

At, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high. 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout. 

And burst the cannon's roar , — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. 

Where knelt the vanquished foe. 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood. 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 



384 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


better that her shattered hulk 


Why, in thy sheath upspringing. 


Should sink beneath the wave ; — 


Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing? 


Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 


Why clanging with delight, 


And there should be her grave ! 


So eager for the fight? 


Nail to the mast her holy flag, 


Hurrah ! 


Set every threadbare sail, 




And give her to the god of storms. 


" Well may thy scabbard rattle, 


The lightning and the gale ! 


Trooper, I pant for battle ; 


OLrvrEE Wendell Holmes. 


Eight eager for the fight. 




I clang with wild delight. 


. 


Hurrah!" 
Why thus my love forth creeping ? 




KOEKEK'S SWOED SONG, 


Stay, in thy chamber sleeping ; 




Wait, still, iu the narrow room ; 


COMPLETED ONE HOTTE BEFOEE HE FELL ON 
THE BATTLE-FIET,r>, AUG. 23, 1813. 


Soon for my bride I come. 


7 3 


Hurrah ! 


SwoED at my left side gleaming ! 




Why is thy keen glance, beaming, 
So fondly bent on mine ? 
I love that smile of thine ! 


" Keep me not longer piuing ! 

0, for Love's garden, shining 

With roses bleeding red. 


Hurrah ! 


And blooming with the dead ! 




Hurrah ! " 


" Borne by a trooper daring, 


Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! 


My looks his fire-glance wearing. 


Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! 


I arm a freeman's hand : 


Come forth, my good sword, come ! 


This well delights thy brand! 


Enter thy father-home ! 


Hurrah!" 


Hurrah ! 


Ay, good sword, free I wear thee ; 


" Ha ! in the free air glancing. 


And, true heart's love, I bear thee, 


How brave this bridal dancing I 


Betrothed one, at my side, 


How, in the sun's glad beams, 


As my dear, chosen bride ! 


Bride-like, thy bright steel gleams ! 


Hurrah ! 


Hurrah!" 


"To thee tUl death united. 


Come on, ye German horsemen ! 


Thy steel's bright life is plighted ; 


Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 


Ah, were my love but tried ! 


Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? 


When wilt thou wed thy bride ? 


Clasp each in hand his bride ! 


Hurrah!" 


Hurrah I 


The trumpet's festal warning 


Once at your left side sleeping. 


Shall hail our bridal morning ; 


Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping ; 


When loud the cannon chide. 


Now, wedded with your right. 


Then clasp I my loved bride ! 


God plights your bride in the light. 


Hurrah ! 


Hurrah! 


" 0, joy, when thine arms hold me! 


Then press with warm caresses, 


I pine until they fold me. 


Close lips and bridal kisses. 


Come to me ! bridegroom come ! 


Your steel ; — cursed be his head 


Thine is my maiden bloom. 


Who fails the bride he wed ! 


Hurrah!" 


Hurrah ! 



HOHENLINDEN. 



385 



Now, till your swords flash, flinging 
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing ; 
Day dawns for bridal pride ; 
Hurrah, thou iron bride ! 

Hurrah ! 
Kael Theodoe Koenek (German). 
Translation of W. B. Choeley. 



INCIDENT OF THE FEENCH CAMP. 



You know we French stormed Eatisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow. 

Oppressive with its mind. 

II. 

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

"Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

in. 
Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

IV. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 

We 've got you Eatisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his 
plans 

Soared up again like flre. 
25 



V. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's 
pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
" I 'm kilKd, sire ! " And, his chief beside. 

Smiling; the boy fell dead. 

EOBEET BEOWNXNa. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow, 
And bloodier yet shaUbe the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'T is morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 



886 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


Few, few shall part where many meet ! 


Plunged in the battery smoke, 


The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 


With many a desp'rate stroke 


And every turf beneath their feet 


The Russian line they broke ; 


Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 


Then they rode back, but not — 


Thomas Cajipbell. 


Not the Six Hundred. 
Cannon to right of them. 






Cannon to left of them, 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRI- 


Cannon behind them, 


GADE AT BALiNKTAYA. 


Volleyed and thundered. 




Stormed at with shot and shell. 


Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death, 
Rode the Six Hundi*ed, 


While horse and hero fell. 
Those that had fought so weU 


Came from the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of HeU, 




All that was left of them. 


Into the valley of Death 


Left of Six Hundred. 


Rode the Six Hundred; 




For up came an order which 
Some one had blundered. 


When can their glory fade ? 
the wild charge they made ! 


''Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Take the guns ! " Nolan said ; 
Into the valley of Death, 
Rode the Six Hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade! " 


All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made I 


Honor the Light Brigade, 
Noble Six Hundi-ed! 

Alfeed Teniteson. 




ISTo man was there dismayed — 




Not though the soldiers knew 


YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND: 


Some one had blundered : 




Theirs not to make reply, 


A NAVAL ODE. 


Theirs not to reason why, 




Theirs but to do and die^- 


I, 


Into the valley of Death, 


Ye Mariners of England ! 


Rode the Six Hundred. 


That guard our native seas ; 




Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. 


Cannon to right of them, 


The battle and the breeze ! 


Cannon to left of them. 


Your glorious standard launch again 


Cannon in front of them, 


To match another foe I 


Volleyed and thundered. 


And sweep through the deep 


Stormed at with shot and shell. 


While the stormy winds do blow ; 


Boldly they rode and well; 


While the battle rages loud and long. 


Into the jaws of Death, 


And the stormy winds do blow. 


Into the mouth of hell, 




Rode the Six Hundred. 


n. 




The spirits of your fathers 


Flashed all their sabres bare. 


Shall start from every wave I — 


Flashed all at once in air. 


For the deck it was their field of fame, 


Sabring the gunners there, 


And Ocean was their grave. 


Charging an army, while 


Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 


All the world wondered. 


Your manly hearts shall glow. 



BATTLE OF 


THE BALTIC. 38Y 


As ye sweep tlirougli the deep 


It was ten 'of April morn by the chime. 


"While the stormy winds do blow — 


As they drifted on their path 


While the battle rages loud and long, 


There was silence deep as death ; 


And the stormy winds do blow. 


And the boldest held his breath 


m. 


For a time. 


Britaimia needs no bulwarks, 


III. 


No towers along the steep ; 


But the might of England flushed 


Her march is o'er the mountain- wave, 


To anticipate the scene ; 


Her home is on the deep. 


And her van the fleeter rushed 


With thunders from her native oak 


O'er the deadly space between. 


She quells the floods below, 


"Hearts of oak! " our captain cried; when 


As they roar on the shore 


each gun 


When the stormy winds do blow — 


From its adamantine lips 


When the battle rages loud and long, 


Spread a death-shade round the ships. 


And the stormy winds do blow. 


Like the hurricane eclipse 


TTT 


Of the sun. 


IV. 

The meteor flag of England 


rv. 


Shall yet terrific burn, 


Again! again! again! 


Till danger's troubled night depart. 


And the havock did not slack. 


And the star of peace return. 


TiU a feeble cheer the Dane 


Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 


To our cheering sent us back ; 


Our song and feast shall flow 


Their shots along the deep slowly boom— 


To the fame of your name, 


Then ceased — and all is wail. 


When the storm has ceased to blow — 


As they strike the shattered sail. 


When the fiery fight is heard no more. 


Or, in conflagration pale. 


And the storm has ceased to blow. 


Light the gloom. 


Thomas Campbell. 


Y. 




Out spoke the victor then. 






As he hailed them o'er the wavd : 


BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 


" Ye are brothers ! ye, are men! 




And we conquer but to save ; 


I. 


So peace instead of death let us bring ; 


Op Kelson and the North 


But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 


Sing the glorious day's renown, 


With the crews, at England's feet. 


When to battle fierce came forth 


And make submission meet 


All the might of Denmark's crown. 


To our king.^' 


And her arms along the deep proudly 




shone ; 


VI. 


By each gun the lighted brand 


Then Denmark blessed our chief. 


In a bold determined hand, 


That he gave her wounds repose ; 


And the Prince of aU the land 


And the sounds of joy and grief 


Led them on. 


From her people wildly rose, 




As death withdrew his shades from the 


II. 


day. 


Like leviathans afloat 


While the sun looked smiling bright 


Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 


O'er a wide and woeful sight. 


While the sign of battle flew 


Where the fires of funeral light 


On the lofty British line — 


Died away. 



388 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

VIII. 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true. 

On the deck of fame that died. 

With the gallant good Riou — 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their 

grave ! 
While the billow mournful roUs, 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE SEA FIGHT. 

AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MAEINEE. 

An, yes — the fight ! Well, messmates, well, 
I served on board that Ninety-eight ; 

Yet what I saw I loathe to tell. 

To-night, be sure a crushing weight 

Upon my sleeping breast — a hell 
Of dread will sit. At any rate. 

Though land-locked here, a watch I 'U keep — 

Grog cheers us stiU. Who cares for sleep ? 

That Ninety-eight I sailed on board ; 

Along the Frenchman's coast we flew ; 
Right aft the rising tempest roared ; 

A noble first-rate hove in view ; 
And soon high in the gale there soared 

Her streamed-out bunting — ^red, white, 
blue! 
We cleared for fight, and landward bore. 
To get between the chase and shore. 

Masters, I cannot spin a yarn 

Twice laid with words of silken stuff. 

A fact 's a fact ; and ye may larn 

The rights o' this, tliough wild and rough 



My words may loom. 'T is your consarn. 
Not mine, to understand. Enough ; — 
We neared the Frenchman where he lay. 
And as we neared, he blazed away. 

We tacked, hove to ; we filled, we wore ; 

Did all that seamanship could do 
To rake him aft, or by the fore — 

Now rounded off, and now broached to ; 
And now our starboard broadside bore. 

And showers of iron through and through 
His vast hull hissed ; our larboard then 
Swept from his three-fold decks his men. 

As we, like a huge serpent, toiled, 
And wound about, through that wild sea. 

The Frenchman each manoeuvre foiled — 
'Vantage to neither there could be. 

Whilst thus the waves between us boiled. 
We both resolved right manfully 

To fight it side by side ; — began 

Then the fierce strife of man to man. 

Gun bellows forth to gun, and pain 
Rings out her wild, delirious scream ! 

Redoubling thunders shake the main ; 
Loud crashing, falls the shot-rent beam. 

The timbers with the broadsides strain ; 
The slippery decks send up a steam 

From hot and living blood — and high 

And shrill is heard the death-pang cry. 

The shredded limb, the splintered bone, 
Th' unstiffened corpse, now block the way I 

Who now can hear the dying groan ? 
The trumpet of the judgment day. 

Had it pealed forth its mighty tone. 

We should not then have heard, — to say 

Would be rank sin ; but this I tell. 

That could alone our madness quell. 

Upon the fore-castle I fought 

As captain of the for'ad gun. 
A scattering shot the carriage caught I 

What mother then had known her son 
Of those who stood around ? — distraught, 

And smeared with gore, about they run, 
Then fall, and writhe, and howling die ! 
But one escaped — that one was I ! 



CASABIANCA. 



Night darkened round, and the storm pealed, 

To windward of us lay the foe. 
As he to leeward over keeled, 

He could not fight his guns below ; 
So just was going to strike — when reeled 

Our vessel, as if some vast blow 
From an Almighty hand had rent 
The huge ship from her element. 

Then howled the thunder. Tumult then 
Had stunned herself to silence. Eound 

Were scattered lightning-blasted men ! 
Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned. 

Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again 
The bolt burst on us, and we found 

Our masts all gone — our decks all riven : 

— Man's war mocks faintly that of Heaven ! 

Just then — ^nay, messmates, laugh not now — 

As I, amazed, one minute stood 
Amidst that rout ; I know not how — 

'T was silence all — the raving flood. 
The guns that pealed from stem to bow. 

And God's own thunder — nothing could 
I then of all that tumult hear. 

Or see aught of that scene of fear. 

Mj aged mother at her door 

Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel ; 

The cottage, orchard, and the moor — 
I saw them plainly all. I'll kneel, 

And swear I saw them ! Oh, they wore 
A look all peace. Could I but feel 

Again that bliss that then I felt. 

That made my heart, like childhood's, melt ! 

The blessed tear was on my cheek, 

She smiled with that old smile I know : 

" Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," 
Was on my quivering lips — when lo ! 

All vanished, and a dark, red streak 
Glared wild and vivid from the foe, 

That flashed upon the blood-stained water — 

For fore and aft the flames liad caught her. 

She struck and hailed us. On us fast 
All burning, helplessly, she came — 

Near, and more near ; and not a mast 
Had we to help us from that flame. 

'Twas then the bravest stood aghast — 
'Twas then the wicked, on the name 

(With danger and with guilt appalled,) 

Of God, too long neglected, called. 



Th' eddying flames with ravening tongue 
Now on our ship's dark bulwarks dash — ■ 

We almost touched — when ocean rung 
Down to its depths with one loud crash 1 

In heaven's top vault one instant hung 
The vast, intense, and blinding flash ! 

Then all was darkness, stillness, dread — 

The wave moaned o'er the valiant dead. 

She 's gone ! blown up ! that gallant. foe 1 
And though she left us in a plight, 

We floated still ; long were, I know, 
And hard, the labors of that night 

To clear the wreck. At length in tow 
A frigate took us, when 't was light ; 

And soon an English port we gained — 

A hulk all battered and blood-stained. 

So many slain — so many drowned! 

I like not of that fight to tell. 
Come, let the cheerful grog go round ! 

Messmates, I 've done. A spell, ho, spell- 
Though a pressed man, I '11 still be found 

To do a seaman's duty well. 
I wish our brother landsmen knew 
One half we jolly tars go through. 

Anonymous. 



CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck 
Whence all but he had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — ^he would not go 

Without his father's word; 
That father, faint in death below. 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say. 

If yet my task is done ? " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 



890 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


" Speak, father ! " once again lie cried, 


In their love and constancy 


" If I may yet be gone ! " 


None above them e'er can be, 


And but the booming shots replied, 


As the maidens daily see 


And fast the flames rolled on. 


Who are by seamen courted. 




Nothing for them is too good 


Upon his brow he felt their breath. 


That is found in land or flood; 


And in his waving hair. 


Nor with better flesh and blood 


And looked from that lone post of death 


Has any ever sported. 


In still, yet brave despair. 


Anonymoits. 


And shouted but once more aloud, 
" My father ! must I stay ? " 






"While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 




The wreathing fires made way. 


SONG OF THE GEEEK POET. 


They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 


The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 


They caught the flag on high, 


Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 


And streamed above the gallant child. 


Where grew the arts of war and peace — 


Like banners in the sky. 


Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung I 


There came a burst of thunder sound — 


Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 


The boy — ! where was he ? 


'But all, except their sun, is set. 


Ask of the winds that far around 




With fragments strewed the sea! — 


The Scian and the Teian muse, 




The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 


"With mast, and helm, and pennon fair. 


Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 


That well had borne their part — 


Their place of birth alone is mute 


But the noblest thing which perished there 


To sounds which echo further west 


"Was that young, faithful heart ! 


Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 


Felicia Hemans. 


The mountains look on Marathon, 






And Marathon looks on the sea ; 


SEAMEN'S SONG. 


And musing there an hour alone. 




I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 


O'ee the rolling waves we go. 


For standing on the Persians' grave. 


Where the stormy winds do blow. 


I could not deem myself a slave. 


To quell with fire and sword the foe 




That dares give us vexation. 


A king sat on the rocky brow 


Sailing to each foreign shore. 


Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 


Despising hardships we endure, 
Wealth we often do bring o'er 


And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations — all were his ! 


That does enrich the nation. 


He counted them at break of day — 




And when the sun set, where were they ? 


Noble-hearted seamen are 




Those that do no labor spare, 




N6r no danger shun or fear, » 


And where are they ? and where art thou 


To do their country pleasure. 


My country ? On thy voiceless shore 


In loyalty they do abound ; 


The heroic lay is tuneless now — 


Nothing base in them is found ; 


The heroic bosom beats no more ! 


But they bravely stand their ground 


And must thy lyre, so long divine. 


In calm and stormy weather. 


Degenerate into hands like mine ? 



MARCO BOZZAEIS. 



391 



Tis scmething, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers, bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What ! silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah no ! — ^the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come ! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call. 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 



And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 

A land of slaves shaU ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LoKD Byeon. 



MARCO BOZZAEIS. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band — 

True as the steel of their tried blades, 
Heroes in heart and hand. 

There had the Persian's thousands stood, 

Tliere had the glad earth drunk their blood 
On old Plataea's day ; 

And now there breathed that haunted air 



392 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


The sons of sires who conquered there, 


Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 


With arms to strike, and soul to dare. 


Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 


As quick, as far, as they. 


Come in her crowning hour — and then 




Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 


An hour passed on — the Turk awoke : 


To him is welcome as the sight 


That bright dream was his last ; 


Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 


He woke — ^to hear his sentries shriek, 


Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 


"To arms! they come! the Greek! the 


Of brother in a foreign land ; 


Greek!" 


Thy summons welcome as the cry 


He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 


That told the Indian isles were nigh 


And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 


To the world- seeking Genoese, 


And death-shots falling thick and fast 


When the land-wind, from woods of palm. 


As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 


And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 


And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 


Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 


Bozzaris cheer his band : 




" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 


Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 


Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 


Greece nurtured in her glory's time. 


Strike— for the green graves of your sires ; 


Best thee — there is no prouder grave, 


God — and your native land ! " 


Even in her own proud clime. 




She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 


They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 


Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume. 


They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 


Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. 


They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 


In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 


Bleeding at every vein. 


The heartless luxury of the tomb. 


His few surviving comrades saw 


But she remembers thee as one 


His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 


Long loved, and for a season gone ; 


And the red field was won ; 


Tor thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 


Then saw in death his eyelids close 


Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 


Calmly, as to a night's repose. 


For thee she rings the birth-day bells ; 


Like flowers at set of sun. 


Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 




For thine her evening prayer is said 


Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 


At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 


Come to the mother's, when she feels, 


Her soldier, closing with the foe, 


For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 


Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 


Come when the blessed seals 


His plighted maiden, when she fears 


That close the pestilence are broke, 


For him, the joy of her young years, 


And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 


Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 


Come in consumption's ghastly form. 


And she, the mother of thy boys. 


The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm ; 


Though in her eye and faded cheek 


Come when the heart beats high and warm. 


Is read the grief she will not speak. 


With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 


The memory of her buried joys — 


And thou art terrible — the tear. 


And even she who gave thee birth. 


The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 


Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 


And all we know, or dream, or fear 


Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 


Of agony, are thine. 


For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — 




One of the few, the immortal names 


But to the hero, when his sword 


That were not born to die. 


Has won the battle for the free. 


Fitz-Geeene Halleck. 


Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 




And in its hollow tones are heard 


♦ 


The thanks of millions yet to be. 





THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT. 



i598 



THE MEMOKY OF THE DEAD. 

Who fears to speak of Mnety-eigM ? 

Who blushes at the name ? 
"When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 

Who hangs his head for shame ? 
He 's all a knave, or half a slave, 

Who slights his country thus ; 
But a true man, like you, man, 

Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the hrave. 

The faithful and the few — 
Some lie far off beyond the wave — 

Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
All, all are gone — but still lives on 

The fame of those who died — 
All true men, like you, men, 

Eemember them with pride. 

Some on the shores of distant lands 

Their weary hearts have laid. 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 

Their lonely graves were made ; 
But, though their clay be far away 

Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
In true men, like you, men. 

Their spirit 's still at home. 

The dust of some is Irish earth ; 

Among their own they rest ; 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 
And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start 
Of true men, like you, men, 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 
They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas ! that Might can vanquish Eight — 

They fell and passed away ; 
But true men, like you, men, 

Are plenty here to-day. 

Then here's their memory — ^may it be 

For us a guiding light. 
To cheer our strife for liberty, 

And teach us to unite. 



Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 
Though sad as theirs your fate ; 

And true men, be you, men. 
Like those of Ninety-eight ! 

John Kells Ixgbam. 



THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT. 

They rose in Freedom's rare sunrise. 

Like giants roused from wine ; 
And in their hearts and in their eyes 

The god leapt up divine ! 
Their souls flashed out like naked swords. 

Unsheathed for fiery fate ; 
Strength went like battle with their words — 

The men of Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah ! 

For the men of Forty-eight. 

Dark days have fallen, yet in the strife 

They bate no hope sublime, 
And bravely works the exultant life. 

Their heart's pulse through the time ; 
As grass is greenest trodden down, 

So suffering makes men great. 
And this dark tide shall richly crown 

The work of Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah! 

For the men of Forty-eight. 

Some in a bloody burial sleep, 

Like Greeks to glory gone, 
But in their steps avengers leap 

With their proof-armor on ; 
And hearts beat high with dauntless trust 

To triumph soon or late, 
Though they be mouldering down in dust — 

Brave men of Forty-eight ! 
Hurrah ! 

For the men of Forty-eight. 

O when the world wakes up to worst 

The tyrants once again. 
And Freedom's summons-shout shaU burst, 

Eare music ! on the brain, — 



894 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



"With heart to heart,in many a land, 

Ye '11 find them all elate— 
Brave remnant of that Spartan band, 
The men of Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah! 
For the men of Forty-eight. 

Gbbald Massey. 



AN ODE. 

What constitutes a State ? 
iRot high raised battlement or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets 
crowned ; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies 
ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to 
pride. 

No : — ^Men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude — 

Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
maintain, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
chain : 

These constitute a State ; 
And sovereign Law, that State's collected will. 

O'er thrones and globes elate, 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 

Such was this Heaven-loved isle. 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

SiE William Jones. 



SONNETS. 

LONDON, 1802. 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 
England hath need of thee. She is a fen 
Of stagnant waters. Altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
0, raise us up, return to us again. 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! 
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the 

sea; 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



TO TOTJSSAINT l'oTJVEETFEE. 

ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den — 
miserable chieftain ! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow. 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be- 
hind 
Powers that wiU work for thee — air, earth, 

and skies. 
There 's not a breathing of the common wind 
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 
William Woedswoeth. 



TO A VEEY ILLUSTEIOUS NOBLEMAN. 

Sweet as the silver voice of victory. 
Enlarging the fair glory of a king, 
Or that lamenting bird, in Summer free, 
That to the shepherd's thirsty ear doth sing ; 

As sweet as to divining fancy ring 
The golden axles of the circling sphere. 
So sweetly in thy praise, on angel's wing. 



ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. 



395 



I mean to soar beyond the solar year ; 
And there, escaped from anguish and from fear, 
To trmmph in the spai'kling fonnt of day, 
Thy harbinger, that brightly shall appear 
In that celestial walk ; as fair as they 
Whom Earth, of her heroic race, hath sent, 
To be her glory, and her argument ! 

Lord Thttelow. 



ON" A BUST OF DANTE. 

See, from this counterfeit of him 
Whom Arno shall remember long, 
How stern of lineament, how grim, 
The father was of Tuscan song ! 
There but the burning sense of wrong, 
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide — 
Small friendship for the lordly throng, 
Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be, 

No dream his life was — but a fight ; 

Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that anchorite ? 

To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight 

Who could have guessed the visions came 

Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light. 

In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Gump's cavern close, 
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin. 
The rigid front, almost morose, 
But for the patient hope within, 
Declare a life whose course hath been 
Unsullied still, though still severe. 
Which, through the wavering days of sin 
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

ISTot wholly such his haggard look 
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed. 
With no companion save his book, 
To Oorvo's hushed monastic shade ; 
Where, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest. 
The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent's charity was rest. 

Peace dwells not here — this rugged face 
Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
The sullen warrior sole we trace, 
The marble man of many woes. 



Such was his mien when first arose 
The thought of that strange tale divine — 
When hell he peopled with his foes. 
The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 
The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
Baron and duke, in hold and hall. 
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 
He used Kome's harlot for his mirth ; 
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
But valiant souls of knightly worth 
Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 



0, Time ! whose verdicts mock our own. 
The only righteous judge art thou ; 
That poor, old exile, sad and lone. 
Is Latium's other Virgil now. 
Before his name the nations bow ; 
His words are parcel of mankind, 
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 

Thomas William Parsons. 



ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. 

Come then, tell me, sage divine, 

Is it an offence to own 
That our bosoms e'er incline 

Toward immortal Glory's throne ? 
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, 
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure. 
So can fancy's dream rejoice. 
So conciliate reason's choice. 
As one approving word of her impartial voice. 

If to spurn at noble praise 

Be the passport to thy heaven, 
Follow thou those gloomy ways- 
No such law to me was given ; 
NTor, I trust, shall I deplore me, 
Faring like my friends before me ; 
Nor an holier place desire 
Than Timoleon's arms acquire. 
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden 
lyre. 

Mark Akenside. 



396 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 




A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 


F.XOELSIOR. 


But still he answered, with a sigh, 




Excelsior ! 


The shades of night were fallmg fast, 




As through an Alpine village passed 


"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch I 


A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 


Beware the awful avalanche! " 


A banner with the strange device — 


This was the peasant's last good-night ; 


Excelsior I 


A voice replied, far up the height. 




Excelsior! 


His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 




Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath; 


At break of day, as heavenward 


And like a silver clarion rung 


The pious monks of Saint Bernard 


The accents of that unknown tongue — 
Excelsior ! 


Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried, through the startled air, 


In happy homes he saw the light 


Excelsior ! 


Of household fires gleam warm and bright : 




Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 


A traveller, by the faithful hound, 


And from his lips escaped a groan — 


Half-buried in the snow was found. 


Excelsior ! 


Still grasping in his hand of ice 




That banner with the strange device, 


" Try not the pass ! " the old man said : 


Excelsior I 


"Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 




The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 


Inere in the twilight cold and gray, 


And loud that clarion voice replied 


•Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 


Excelsior ! 


And from the sky, serene and far, 




A voice fell, like a falling star — 


" stay," the maiden said, "and rest 


Excelsior ! 


Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 


Henkt Wadswoeth Longfellow. 




i 



PART VI. 

POEMS OF COMEDY 



! NEVER wear a brow of care, or frown with rueful gravity, 

For Wit 's the child of Wisdom, and Good Humor is the twin ; 
No need to play the Pharisee, or groan at man's depravity, 

Let ONE man be a good man, and let all be fair within. 
Speak sober truths with smiling lips ; the bitter wrap in sweetness — 

Sound sense in seeming nonsense, as the grain is hid in chaff; 
And fear not that the lesson e'er may seem to lack completeness — 

A man may say a wise thing, though he say it with a laugh. 

"A soft word oft turns wrath aside," (so says the Great Instructor,] 

A smile disarms resentment, and a jest drives gloom away ; 
A cheerful laugh to anger is a magical conductor, 

The deadly flash averting, quickly changing night to day. 
Then, is not he the wisest man who rids his brow of wrinkles. 

Who bears his load with merry heart, and lightens it by half— 
Whose pleasant tones ring in the ear, as mirthful music tinkles. 

And whose words are true and telling, though they echo in a laugh \ 

So temper life's work — weariness with timely relaxation ; 

Most witless wight of all is he who never plays the fool ; 
The heart grows gray before the head, when sunk in sad prostration ; 

Its Winter knows no Christmas, with its glowing log of Yule. 
Why weep, faint-hearted and forlorn, when evil comes to try us ? 

The fount of hope wells ever nigh — 'twill cheer us if we quafi"; 
And, when the gloomy phantom of Despondency stands by us. 

Let us, in calm defiance, exorcise it with a laugh ! 

Anontmotjb. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



THE HEIR OF LINNE. 

PAET FIRST. 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen ; 

To sing a song I will begin : 
It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 

"Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

His father was a right good lord. 
His mother a lady of high degree ; 

But they, alas ! were dead him fro, 
And he loved keeping company. 

To spend the day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revel every night, 

To card and dice from even to morn, 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar, 
To always spend and never spare, 

I wot, an he were the king himself. 
Of gold and fee he might be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty heir of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone and spent ; 

And he maun sell his lands so broad. 
His house, and lands, and all his rent. 

His father had a keen steward. 
And John o' Scales was called he ; 

But John is become a gentleman. 
And John has got both gold and fee. 

Says, "Welcome, welcome. Lord of Linne 
Let nought disturb thy heavy cheer ; 

If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad. 
Good store of gold I '11 give thee here." 



"My gold is gone, my money is spent. 
My land now take it unto thee : 

Give me the gold, good John o' Scales, 
And thine for aye my land shaU be." 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
And John he gave him a god's-penny ; 

But for every pound that John agreed, 
The land, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the board ; 

He was right glad the land to win : 
" The land is mine, the gold is thine, 

And now I '11 be the Lord of Linne." 

Thus he hath sold his land so broad ; 

Both hiU and holt, and moor and fen, 
All but a poor and lonesome lodge. 

That stood far off in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father hight : 

"My son, when I am gone," said he, 

" Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free ; 

" But swear me now upon the rood, 
That lonesome lodge thou 'It never spend ; 

For when all the world doth frown on thee, 
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend." 

The heir of Linne is full of gold ; 

And, " Come with me, my friends," said he ; 
"Let's drink, and rant, and merry make. 

And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." 



400 



POEMS OF COMEDY, 



They ranted, drank, and merry made, 

Till all his gold it waxed thin ; 
And then his friends they slunk away ; 

They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his purse, 

Never a penny left but three ; 
The one was brass, the other was lead, 

And t' other it was white money. 

" Now well-a-way ! " said the heir of Linne, 
" Now well-a-way, and woe is me ! 

For when I was the Lord of Linne, 
I never wanted gold nor fee. 

" But many a trusty friend have I, 
And Avhy should I feel dole or care ? 

I '11 borrow of them all by turns, 
So need I not be ever bare." 

But one, I wis, was not at home ; 

Another had paid his gold away ; 
Another called him thriftless loon, 

And sharply bade him wend his way 

" Now well-a-way ! " said the heir of Linne, 
" Now well-a-way, and woe is me ! 

For when I had my land so broad, 
On me they lived right merrily. 

" To beg my bread from door to door, 
I wis, it were a burning shame : 

To rob and steal it were a sin : 
To work my limbs I cannot frame. 

"Now I'll away to the lonesome lodge, 
For there my father bade me wend : 

When all the world should frown on me, 
I there should find a trusty friend."" 

PAET SECOND. 

Away then hied the heir of Linne, 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fen. 

Until he came to the lonesome lodge, 
That stood so low in a lonely glen. 

He looked ujd, he looked down. 
In hope some comfort for to win ; 

But bare and lothely were the walls : 

" Here 's sorry cheer ! '^ quoth the heir of 
Linne. 



The little window, dim and dark, 
Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew ; 

No shimmering sun here ever shone ; 
No halesome breeze here ever blew. 



No chair, no table, he mote spy, 
No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, 

Nought save a rope with a running noose, 
That dangling hung up o'er his head. 

And over it, in broad letters. 

These words ^ere written, so plain to see : 
" Ah ! graceless wretch, hath spent thy aU, 

And brought thyself to penury ? 

" All this my boding mind misgave, 
I therefore left this trusty friend : 

Now let it shield thy foul disgrace. 
And all thy shame and sorrows end." 

Sorely vexed with this rebuke, 
Sorely vexed was the heir of Linne ; 

His heart, I wis, was near to burst. 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spake the heir of Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 

"This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me." 

Then round his neck the cord he di-ew, 
And sprung aloft with his body ; 

When lo ! the ceiling burst in twain. 
And to the ground came tumbling he. 

Astonished lay the heir of Linne, 
Nor knew if he were live or dead ; 

At length he looked and saw a biU, 
And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the biU and. looked it on ; 

Straight good comfort found he there ; 
It told him of a hole in the wall 

In which there stood three chests in-fere. 

Two were full of the beaten gold ; 

The third was full of white money ; 
And over them, in broad letters, 

These words were written so plain to see : 



THE HEIR OF LINNE. 



401 



" Once more, my son, I set tliee clear ; 

Amend th j life and follies past ; 
For, but thou amend tliee of tliy life. 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

"And let it be," said the heir of Linne ; 

" And let be, but if I amend : 
For here I will make mine avow. 

This reade shall guide me to the end." 

Away then went the heir of Linne, 
Away he went with merry cheer ; 

I wis he neither stint nor stayed, 

Till John o' the Scales' house he came near. 

And when he came to John o' the Scales, 
Up at the spere then looked he ; 

There sat three lords at the board's end. 
Were drinking of the wine so free. 

Then up bespoke the heir of Linne ; 

To John o' the Scales then could he : 
" I pray thee now, good John o' the Scales, 

One forty pence for to lend me." 

"Away, away, thou thriftless loon! 

Away, away ! this may not be : 
For a curse be on my head," he said, 

" If ever I lend thee one penny! " 

Then bespoke the heir of Linne, 

To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he : 
" Madam, some alms on me bestow, 

I pray, for sweet Saint Charity." 

" Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

I swear thou gettest no alms of me ; 
For if we should hang any losel here. 

The first we would begin with thee." 

Then up bespoke a good fellow 

Which sat at John o' the Scales Ms board : 
Said, " Turn again, thou heir of Linne ; 

Some time thou wast a well good lord : 

" Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore I '11 lend thee forty pence. 
And other forty if need be. 
26 



" And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 

To let him sit in thy company : 
For well I wot thou hadst his land. 

And a good bargain^ it was to thee." 

Then up bespoke him John o' the Scales, 
All woode he answered him again : 

"Now a curse be on my head," he said, 
"But I did lose by that bargain. 

" And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, 
Before these lords so fair and free. 

Thou shalt have 't back again better cheap. 
By a hundred merks, than I had it of thee." 

"I draw you to record, lords," he said ; 

With that he gave him a god's-penny : 
"Now, by my fay," said the heir of Linne, 

"And here, good John, is thy money." 

And he pulled forth the bags of gold. 
And laid them down upon the board : 

All wo-begone was John o' the Scales, 
So vexed he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold. 
He told it forth with mickle din ; 

" The gold is thine, the land is mine, 
And now I 'm again the Lord of Linne ! " 

Says, " Have thou here, thou good fellow ; 

Forty pence thou didst lend me ; 
Now I 'm again the Lord of Linne, 

And forty pounds I will give thee." 

" Now well-a-way ! " quoth Joan o' the Scales ; 

" Now well-a-way, and wo is my life ! 
Yesterday I was Lady of Linne, 

Now I 'm but John o' the Scales his wife." 

" Now fare-thee-well," said the heir of Linne, 
" Farewell, good John o' the Scales," said 
he: 
" When next I want to sell my land. 



Good John 
thee." 



the Scales, I'll come to 



Anontmotjs. 



402 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



GOOD ALE. 

I CANNOT eat but little meat — 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure, I think that I can drink 

"With him that wears a hood. 
Tho''I go bare, take ye no care ; 

I am nothing a-cold — 
I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
BacTc and side go l}o/re^ go 'hare; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But^ delly^ Godsend thee good ale enough, 

Whether it le new or old. 



I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the fire ; 
A little bread shall do me stead — 

Much bread I not desire. 
No frost nor snow, nor wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold — 
I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go lare, go hare; 

Both foot and hand go cold; 
But, helly^ God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it he new or old. 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek. 
Full oft drinks she, till you may see 

The tears run down her cheek ; 
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, 

Even as a malt-worm should ; 
And saith, " Sweetheart, I took my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 
Bach and side go hare, go hare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, helly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it he new or old. 

Now let them drink till they nod and 
wink. 
Even as good fellows should do ; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poor souls that have scoured 
bowls, 
Or have them lustily trowled, 



God save the lives of them and their 
wives, 
Whether they be young or old. 
BacTc and side go hare, go hare; 
Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, helly, God send thee good ale enough, 
Whether it he new or old. 

John Still. 



TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT 
THEE. 

This winter weather — it waxeth cold, 

And frost doth freese on every hill ; 
And Boreas blows his blastes so cold 

That all our cattell are like to spill. 
Bell, my wife, who loves no strife, 

Shee sayd unto me quietlye, 
Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life — 

Man, put thy old cloake about thee. 



Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne ? 

Thou kenst my cloake is very thin ; 
It is so bare and overworne 

A cricke he thereon can not renn. 
Then He no longer borrowe nor lend — 

For once He new apparelled be ; 
To-morrow He to towne, and spend. 

For He have a new cloake about me. 



Cow Crumbocke is a very good cow — 

She has been alwayes true to the payle ; 
She has helpt us to butter and cheese, I 
trow, 

And other things she will not fayle ; 
I wold be loth to see her pine ; 

Good husbande, council take of me — 
It is not for us to go so fine : 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 

HE. 

My cloake, it was a very good cloake — 
It hath been alwayes true to the weare ; 

But now it is not worth a groat ; 
I have had it four-and-forty yeare. 



THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. 



408 



Sometime it was of cloth in graine ; 

'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see ; 
It will neither hold nor winde nor raine — 

And He have a new cloake about me. 



It is four-and-forty yeeres ago 

Since the one of us the other did ken ; 
And we have had betwixt us towe 

Of children either nine or ten ; 
We have brought them up to women and 
men — 

In the fere of God I trowe they be ; 
And why wilt thou thyself misken — 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 



Bell, my wife, why dost thou floute ? 

Now is now, and then was then ; 
Seeke now all the world throughout. 

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen ; 
They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or 
gray, 

So far above their own degree — 
Once in my life He do as they, 

For He have a new cloake about me. 



King Stephen was a worthy peere — 

His breeches cost him but a crowne ; 
He held them sixpence all too deere, 

Therefore he called the tailor loon. 
He was a wight of high renowne. 

And thou'se but of a low degree — 
It 's pride that puts this countrye downe : 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 



Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, 

Yet she will lead me if she can ; 
And oft to live a quiet life 

I 'm forced to yield though I be good-man, 
It 's not for a man with a woman to threepe. 

Unless he first give o'er the plea ; 
As we began sae will we leave. 

And He take my old cloake about me. 

Anonymous. 



THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. 

An old song made by an aged old pate, 

Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a 

great estate. 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful 

rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his 
gate; 

Lihe an old courtier of the queerCs^ 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old lady, whose anger one word as- 
suages ; 

They every quarter paid their old servants 
their wages. 

And never knew what belonged to coachmen, 
footmen, nor pages. 

But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats 
and badges ; 
Lilce an old courtier of the queerCsy 
And the queen^ old courtier. 

With an old study filled full of learned old 

books ; 
With an old reverend chaplain — you might 

know him by his looks ; 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the 

hooks ; 
And an old kitchen, that maintained half a 

dozen old cooks ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen''s, 
And the queen^a old courtier. 

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, 
and bows. 

With old swords and bucklers, that had borne 
many shrewd blows ; 

And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's 
trunk hose. 

And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his cop- 
per nose ; 

Like an old courtier of the queen's^ 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With a good old fashion, when Christmas 

was come. 
To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe 

and drum; 



404 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



With good cheer enough to furnish every old 

room, 
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and 
man dumb ; 
Lilce an old courtier of the queen'' s^ 
And fhe queen's old courtier. 

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel 
of hounds, 

That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his 
own grounds ; 

Who, like a wise man, kept himself within 
his own bounds. 

And when he dyed, gave every child a thou- 
sand good pounds ; 

Lilce an old courtier of the queen's^ 
And the queen'' s old courtier. 

But to his eldest son his house and land he 

assigned. 
Charging him in his will to keep the old 

.bountiful mind — 
To be good to his old tenants, and to his 

neighbours be kind : 
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how 

he was inclined, 

Lihe a young courtier of the Mng''s, 
And the Mng^s young courtier. 

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come 
to his land. 

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his 
command ; 

And takes up a thousand pound upon his fa- 
ther's land; 

And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can nei- 
ther go nor stand ; 

Like a young courtier of the Mng^s, 
And the Mng''8 young courtier. 

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, 

and spare. 
Who never knew what belonged to good 

housekeeping or care ; 
Who buys gaudy-colored fans to play with 

wanton air. 
And seven or eight different dressings of other 

women's hair ; 
Like a young courtier of the Tcing''s^ 
And the Mng^s young courtier. 



With a new fashioned hall, built where the 

old one stood, 
Hung round with new pictures, that do the 

poor no good ; 
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns 

neither coal nor wood ; 
And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no 

victuals ne'er stood ; 

Lilce a young courtier of the Icing'' s^ 
And the lcing''8 young courtier. 

With a new study, stuffc full of pamphlets and 



And a new chaplain, that swears faster than 

he prays ; 
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once 

in four or five days. 
And a new French cook, to devise fine kick- 
shaws, and toys ; 

Lilce a young courtier of the Mng^s, 
And the Icing'' s young courtier. 

With a new fashion, when Christmas is 

drawing on — 
On a new journey to London straight we aU 

must be gone. 
And leave none to keep house, but our new 

porter John, 
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the 

back with a stone ; 
Lilce a young courtier of the Tcing^s^ 
And the lcing''s young courtier. 



With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage 
is complete ; 

With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to 
carry up the meat ; 

With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing 
is very neat — 

Who, when her lady has dined, lets the ser- 
vants not eat ; 
Lihe a young courtier of the Mng''s, 
And the Mng''s young courtier. 

With new titles of honour bought with his 

father's old gold, 
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors 

are sold : 



THE 


HAG. 406 


And tills Is the course most of our new gal- 


"One officer carried his sabre; 


lants hold, 


And he carried it not without labor. 


Which makes that good house-keeping is now 


Much envying his next neighbor, 


grown so cold 


Who only bore a shield. 


Among the young courtiers of the Mng, 




Or the Tcing^s yourvg courtiers. 


"The third was helmet-bearer — 


ANOirrjiOT78. 


That helmet which on its wearer 
Filled all who saw with terror, 






And covered a hero's brains. 


¥AT,BEOUOK. 




Malbeotjok, the prince of commanders, 


"Now, having got so far, I 


Is gone to the war in Flanders ; 


Find, that — by the Lord Harry! — 


His fame is like Alexander's ; 


The fourth is left nothing to carry ; — 


But when will he come home ? 


So there the thing remains." 




AKOirruotrs (French). 


Perhaps at Trinity Feast; or 


Translation of Feancis Mahoney. 


Perhaps he may come at Easter. 




Egad ! he had better make haste, or 
We fear he may never come. 






For Trinity Feast is over, 




And has brought no news fi'om Dover ; 


THE HAG. 


And Easter is past, moreover. 




And Malbrouck still delays. 


The hag is astride, 




This night for to ride — 
The devil and she together ; 


Milady in her watch-tower 


Spends many a pensive hour, 
Not knowing why or how her 


Through thick and through thin, 
Now out and then in, 


Dear lord from England stays. 


Though ne'er so foul be the weather. 


"While sitting quite forlorn in 




That tower, she spies returning 


A thorn or a burr 


A page clad in deep mourning, 


She takes for a spur ; 


With fainting steps and slow. 


With a lash of a bramble she rides now 


" page, prythee, come faster ! 

What news do you bring of your master ? 

I fear there is some disaster — 


Through brakes and through briers. 
O'er ditches and mires, 
She foUows the spirit that guides now. 


Your looks are so full of woe." 






No beast, for his food, 


" The news I bring, fair lady," 


Dares now range the wood. 


With sorrowful accent said he, 


But husht in his lair he lies lurking ; 


" Is one you are not ready 


While mischiefs, by these. 


So soon, alas ! to hear. 


On land and on seas. 




At noon of night are a- working. 


"But since to speak I'm hurried," 




Added this page quite flurried, 
"Malbrouck is dead and buried! " 


The storm will arise, 


— And here he shed a tear. 


And trouble the skies, 




This night ; and, more the wonder, 


" He 's dead ! he 's dead as a herring ! 


The ghost from the tomb 


For I beheld his herring, 


Affrighted shall come. 


And four officers transferring 


Called out by the clap of the thunder. 


His corpse away from the field. 


EOBEET HkEBICK. 



406 



POEMS OF COMEDY, 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 

AN HEBOI-OOMIOAL POEM. 

Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; 
Sedjuvat hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. — Maet. 

CANTO I. 

What dire offence from amorous causes 

springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
I sing — This verse to Caryl, muse ! is due ; 
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view : 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 
Say what strange motive, goddess! could 

compel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? 
0, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ? 
In tasks so bold can little men engage. 
And in soft bosoms dwell such mighty rage ? 
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous 

ray, 
And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the 

day. 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing 

shake. 
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve awake; 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the 

ground, 
And the pressed watch returned a silver 

sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow prest — 
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest ; 
'T was he had summoned to her silent bed 
The morning-dream that hovered o'er her 

head: 
A youth more glittering than a birthnight 

beau, 
(That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to 

glow,) 
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay. 
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say : 
" Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air ! 
If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have 

taught, 
Of airy elves by moonlight-shadows seen, 
The silver token, and the circled green ; 



Or virgins visited by angel powers 

With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly 

flowers — 
Hear and believe! thy own importance 

know, 
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 
Some secret truths, from learned pride con- 
cealed. 
To maids alone and children are revealed; 
What though no credit doubting wits may 

give? 
The fair and innocent shall still believe. 
Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee 

fly- 
The light militia of the lower sky; 
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, 
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. 
Think what an equipage thou hast in air. 
And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 
As now your own, our beings were of old, 
And once enclosed in woman's beauteous 

mould ; 
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
From earthly vehicles to these of air. 
Think not, when woman's transient breath is 

fled. 
That all her vanities at once are dead ; 
Succeeding vanities she stiU regards. 
And, though she plays no more, o'erlooks the 

cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive. 
And love of ombre, after death survive ; 
For when the fair in all their pride expire. 
To their first elements their souls retire ; 
The sprites of fiery termagant in flame 
Mount up, and take a salamander's name; 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea ; 
The graver prude sinks downward to a 

gnome 
In search of mischief still on earth to roam ; 
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair. 
And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 
"Know further yet; whoever fair and 

chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced : 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
Assume what sexes and what shapes they 

please. 
What guards the purity of melting maids. 
In courtly balls and midnight masquerades, 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



407 



Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring 

spark, 
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark — 
When kind occasion prompts their warm de- 
sires, 
"When music softens, and when dancing fires ? 
'T is but their sylph, the wise celestials know, 
Though honor is the word with men below. 
" Some nymphs there are, too conscious of 
their face. 
For life predestined to the gnome's embrace ; 
These swell their prospects and exalt their 

pride, 
When offers are disdained, and love denied; 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweep- 
ing train, 
And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 
And in soft sounds, 'Your Grace,' salutes 

their ear. 
'T is these that early taint the female soul. 
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll ; 
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know. 
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 

"Oft when the world imagine women 
stray, 
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their 

way; 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue. 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim fall 
To one man's treat, but for another's ball ? 
When Florio speaks, what virgin could with- 
stand, 
K gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? 
With varying vanities from every part 
They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart ; 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots 

sword-knots strive. 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches 

drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call — 
0, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. 
" Of these am I, who thy protection claim ; 
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star, 
I saw, alas ! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main this morning's sun descend ; 
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or 
where : 



Warned by the sylph, pious maid, beware ! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can ; 
Beware of all, but most beware of man ! " 
He said ; when Shock, who thought she 

slept too long, 
Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his 

tongue. 
'T was then, Belinda, if report say true. 
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux ; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors, were no sooner 

read. 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
played. 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent 

adores, 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears — 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess with the glittering 

spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks. 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here, and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs — ^the speckled, and the 

white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows ; 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Eepairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darhng care. 
These set the head, and these divide the hair; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the 

gown; 
And Betty 's praised for labors not her own. 

CANTO n. 

ISTot with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 



408 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around 
her shone, 

But every eye was fixed on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparklmg cross she 
wore, 

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore ; 

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose — 

Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; 

Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 

Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike ; 

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of 
pride. 

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to 
hide: 

If to her share some female errors fall, 

Look on her face, and you '11 forget them all. 
This nymph, to the destruction of man- 
kind, 

Nourished two locks, which graceful hung 
behind 

In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 

With shining ringlets the smooth, ivory neck. 

Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 

And mighty hearts are held in slender 
chains. 

With hairy springes we the birds betray ; 

Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey ; 

Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare. 

And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
Th' adventurous baron the bright locks 
admired ; 

He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 

Eesolved to win, he meditates the way. 

By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 

For when success a lover's toil attends, 

Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 
For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had im- 
plored 

Propitious Heaven, and every power adored ; 

But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built, 

Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 

There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves. 

And all the trophies of his former loves ; 

With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre. 

And breathes three amorous sighs to raise 
the fire. 

Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent 
eyes 

Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 



The powers gave ear, and granted half his 

prayer ; 
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 
But now secure the painted vessel glides. 
The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; 
While melting music steals upon the sky. 
And softened sounds along the waters die : 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently 

play, 
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts op- 

prest, 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
He summons straight his denizens of air ; 
The lucid squadrons round the sails" repair ; 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe. 
That seemed but zephyrs to the train be- 
neath. 
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold. 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold. 
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light ; 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew — ■ 
Thin, glittering textures of the filmy dew. 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes ; 
While every beam new transient colors 

flings, 
Colors that change whene'er they wave 

their wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 
His purple pinions opening to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : 
"Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief 



give ear 



Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear ! 
Ye know the spheres and various tasks as- 
signed 
By laws eternal to th' aerial kind : 
Some in the fields of purest ether play, 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day ; 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on 

high. 
Or roll the planets through the boundless 

sky; 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale 

light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



409 



Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distill the kindly rain ; 
Others, on earth, o'er human race preside. 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions 

guide : 
Of these the chief the care of nations own. 

And guard with arms divine the British 
throne. 
" Our humbler province is to tend the" fair, 

Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 

To save the powder from too rude a gale, 

Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale ; 

To draw fresh colors from the vernal flow- 
ers; 

To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in 
showers, 

A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs. 

Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 

Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 

To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 
" This day black omens threat the bright- 
est fair 

That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 

Some dire disaster, or by force or slight ; 

But Avhat, or where, the fates have wrapped 
in night — 

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 

Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 

Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 

Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 

Or whether heaven has doomed that Shock 
must fall — 

Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge re- 
pair: 

The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 

The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign ; 

And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; 

Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite lock ; 

Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 
" To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note. 

We trust th' important charge, the petti- 
coat — 

Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to 
fail, 

Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs 
of whale — 

Form a strong line about the silver bound, 

And guard the wide circumference around. 
"Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, 



Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his 

sins, 
Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins ; 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 
While clogged he beats his silken wings in 

vain; 
Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivaled flower ; 
Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill ; 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! " 
He spoke; the spirits from the sails de- 
scend ; 
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; 
Some thread the mazy ringlets of her hair ; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait. 
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. 

CANTO III. 

Close by those meads, for ever crowned with 

flowers. 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising 

towers, 
There stands a structure of majestic frame. 
Which from the neighboring Hampton takes 

its name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; 
Here, thou, great Anna ! whom three realms 

obey. 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes 

tea. 
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court ; 
In various talk th' instructive hours they past : 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; 
One speaks the glory of the British queen ; 
And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes — 
At every word a reputation dies ; 
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, 
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; 
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign. 
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine ; 



410 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



The merchant from th' Exchange returns in 

peace, 
And the long labors of the toilet cease. 
Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites. 
Burns to encounter two adventurous knights 
At ombre singly to decide their doom. 
And swells her breast with conquests yet to 

come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to 

join, 
Each band the number of the sacred nine. 
Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card : 
First Ariel perched upon a matadore. 
Then each according to the rank they bore ; 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race. 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold ; four kings in majesty revered, 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a 

flower, 
Th' expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their 

hand; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train, 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 
The skilful nymph reviews her force with 

care ; 
" Let spades be trumps ! " she said, and 

trumps they were. 
Now move to war her sable matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord ! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the 

board. 
As many more Manillio forced to yield. 
And marched a victor from the verdant field. 
Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard 
Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years. 
The hoary majesty of spades appears. 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed. 
The rest his many-colored robe concealed. 
The rebel knave, who dares his prince en- 
gage, 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 
E'en mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'er- 

threw. 
And mowed down armies in the fights of 

loo. 



Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid, 
Falls undistinguished by the victor Spade ! 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; 
Now to the baron fate inclines the field. 
His warlike amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of spades. 
The club's black tyrant first her victim died, 
Spite of his haughty mien and barbarous 

pride : 
What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread — 
That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe ? 
The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; 
Th' embroidered king who shows but half his 

face. 
And his refulgent queen, with powers com- 
bined. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder 

seen. 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level 

green. 
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons — 
With like confusion different nations fly. 
Of various habit, and of various dye ; 
The pierced battalions disunited fall 
In heaps on heaps — one fate o'erwh elms them 

all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts. 
And wins (oh, shameful chance !) the queen 

of hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codiile. 
And now (as oft in some distempered state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate : 
An ace of hearts steps forth ; the king unseen 
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive 

queen ; 
He springs to vengeance with an eager pace. 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the 

sky; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 
Oh thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate. 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate ! 
Sudden these honors shall be snatched away, 
And cursed for ever this victorious day. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



411 



For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is 
crowned ; 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ; 
On shining altars of japan they raise 
The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze; 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, 
AVhile China's earth receives the smoking tide. 
At once they gratify their scent and taste. 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy band : 
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned ; 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dis- 
played, 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
And see through all things with his half-shut 

eyes) 
Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
ISTew stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 
Ah cease, rash youth ! desist ere 't is too late ; 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! 
But when to mischief mortals bend their 
will. 
How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! 
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining case : 
So ladies, in romance, assist their knight — 
Present the spear and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread. 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her 

head. 
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the 

hair ; 
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her 

ear; 
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe 

drew near. 
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought : 
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined. 
He watched th' ideas rising in her mind, 
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
Amazed, confused, he found his power ex- 
pired. 
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 



The peer now spreads the glittering forfex 

wide, 
T' enclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in 

twain, 
(But airy substance soon unites again ;) 
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! 
Then flashed the living lightning from her 



And screams of horror rend th' affrighted 

skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are 

cast 
When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe 

their last ; 
Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! 
" Let wreaths of triumph now my temples 

twine," 
The victor cried " the glorious prize is mine ! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air ; 
Or in a coach and six the British fair ; 
As long as Atalantis shall be read. 
Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed ; 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 
When numerous wax-lights in bright order 

blaze ; 
While nymphs take treats, or assignations 

give. 
So long my honor, name, and praise shall 

live! 
What Time would spare, from steel receives 

its date ; 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate ! 
Steel could the labor of the gods destroy. 
And strike to dust th' imperial towers of 

Troy; 
Steel could the works of mortal pride con- 
found. 
And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs 

should feel 
The conquering force of unresisted steel?" 

CANTO IV. 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph opprest, 
And secret passions labored in her breast. 



412 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Nut youtliful kings in battle seized alive ; 
Not scornful virgins who tlieir charms survive ; 
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss ; 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss ; 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die ; 
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinned 

awry, 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravished hair. 
For, that sad moment, when the sylphs 
withdrew. 
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
TJmbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper scene. 
Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome. 
And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows; 
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
Here in a grotto sheltered close from air. 
And screened in shades from day's detested 

glare, 
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, 
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 
Two handmaids wait the throne ; alike in 
place, 
But differing far in figure and in face. 
Here stood Hi-nature, like an ancient maid, 
Her wrinkled form in black and white ar- 
rayed; 
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, 

and noons, 
Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons. 
There Affectation with a sickly mien, 
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen ; 
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride ; 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show — 
The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 
When each new night-dress gives a new dis- 
ease. 
A constant vapor o'er the palace flies ; 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise — 
Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted 

shades, 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling 

spires, 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires ; 



Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 
Unnumbered throngs on every side are 
seen, 
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 
Here living teapots stand, one arm held out. 
One bent — the handle this, and that the spout; 
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks ; 
Here sighs ajar, and there a goose-pie talks; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy 

works ; 
And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for 
corks. 
Safe passed the gnome through this fantastic 
band, 
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. 
Then thus addressed the power — " Hail, way- 
ward queen ! 
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen ; 
Parent of vapors and of female wit, 
Who give the hysteric or poetic fit, 
On various tempers act by various ways, 
Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay, 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 
A nymph there is that all your power dis- 
dains, 
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 
But O ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, 
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame, 
Or change complexions at a losing game — 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads. 
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, 
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude. 
Or discomposed the headdress of a prude. 
Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease. 
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could 

ease — 
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 
That single act gives half the world the 
spleen." 
The goddess, with a discontented air, 
Seems to reject him, though she grants his 

prayer. 
A wondrous bag with both her hands she 

binds, 
Like that when once Ulysses held the winds; 
There she collects the force of female lungs, 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of 
tongues. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



413 



A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 
Soft sorrows, melting grief^, and flowing tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts 

to day. 
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he 

found, 
Her eye dejected, and her hair unbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he 

rent, 
And all the furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
"O wretched maid!" she spread her hands 

and cried, 
(While Hampton's echoes, " TVretched maid," 

replied,) 
" "Was it for this you took such constant care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare ? 
For this your locks in paper durance bound ? 
For this with torturing irons wreathed 

around ? 
For this with fillets strained your tender 

head? 
And bravely bore the double loads of lead? 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair. 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ? 
Honor forbid ! at whose unrivalled shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, aU our sex resign. 
Methinks ah-eady I your tears survey, 
Already hear the horrid things they say ; 
Already see you a degraded toast. 
And all your honor in a whisper lost ! 
How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend ? 
'T wiU then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize. 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes. 
And heightened by the diamond's circling 

rays, 
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze ? 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde park circus grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all ! " 
She said; then, raging, to Sir Plume re- 
pairs. 
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs. 
Sir Plume, of amber snujff-box justly vain, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane. 
With earnest eyes, and round, unthinking face. 
He first the snufi'-box opened, then the case. 



And thus broke' out — "My lord, why, what 

the devil ! 
Z — ds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must 

be civil ! 
Plague on't! 'tis pasta jest — nay, prithee, 

pox! 
Give her the hair." — He spoke, and rapped 

his box. 
"It grieves me much (replied the peer 

again) 
Who speaks so well should ever speak in 

vain; 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair ; 
Which never more its honors shall renew. 
Clipped from the lovely head where late it 

grew,) 
That, while my nostrils draw the vital air. 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph 

spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 
But Umbriel, hateful gnome, forbears not 

so; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. 
Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief ap- 
pears. 
Her eyes half-languishing, half di-owned in 

tears ; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping 

head. 
Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she 

said : 
" For ever cursed be this detested day. 
Which snatched my best, my favorite curl 

away; 
Happy ! ah ten times happy had I been, 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen ! 
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 
By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. 
had I rather unadmired remained 
In some lone isle, or distant northern land ; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way. 
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste 

bohea ! 
There kept my charms concealed from mortal 

eye, 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
What moved my mind with youthful lords to 

roam ? 
had I stayed, and said my prayers at home ! 



414 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



'T was this the morning omens seemed to tell, 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patchbox 

fell; 
The tottering china shook without a wind, 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most un- 
kind! 
A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of 

fate. 
In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 
See the poor remnant of these slighted hairs ! 
My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine 

spares : 
These in two sable ringlets taught to break. 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 
Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands. 
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. 
hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize 
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! " 

CANTO V. 

She said : the pitying audience melt in tears ; 

But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's 
ears. 

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, 

For who can move when fair Belinda fails ? 

Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, 

"While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. 

Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; 

Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began : 
" Say, why are beauties praised and hon- 
ored most, 

The wise man's passion, and the vain man's 
toast ? 

"Why decked with all that land and sea afford? 

Why angels called, and angel-like adored? 

AVhy round our coaches crowd the white- 
gloved beaux ? 

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? 

How vain are all these glories, all our pains. 

Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 

That men may say, when we the front-box 
grace. 

Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 

O ! if to dance all night, and dress all day, 

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age 
away, 

Who would not scorn what housewife's cares 
produce. 

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? 



To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint ; 
Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint. 
But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay ; 
Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to 

gray; 
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. 
And she who scorns a man must die a maid ; 
What then remains, but well our power to 

use. 
And keep good humor stiU, whate'er we lose? 
And trust me, dear, good humor can prevail, 
When airs, and flights, and screams, and 

scolding fail. 
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll — 
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the 

soul." 
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued ; 
Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude. 
" To arms, to arms ! " the fierce virago cries. 
And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 
All side in parties, and begin th' attack ; 
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones 

crack ; 
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise. 
And bass and treble voices strike the skies. 
No common weapons in their hands are 

found — 
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal 

wound. 
So when bold Homer makes the gods en- 
gage, 
And heavenly breasts with human passions 

rage; 
'Gainst Pallas Mars; Latona Hermes arms ; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms ; 
Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all 

around. 
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps re- 
sound; 
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground 

gives way. 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 
Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's height, 
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the 

fight; 
Propped on their bodkin-spears, the sprites 

survey 
The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
While through the press enraged Thalestris 

flies, 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 



THE RAPE OP THE LOCK. 



415 



A beau and witling perished in the throng — 
One died in metaphor, and one in song : 
" cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast, 
" Those eyes are made so killing " — was his 

last. 
Thus on Mseander's flowery margin lies 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa 
down, 
Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown ; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
But at her smile the beau revived again. 

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air. 
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair ; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to 

side ; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs sub- 
side. 
See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies. 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes ; 
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try. 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength en- 
dued. 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of snuff the wUy virgin threw ; 
The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, 
And the high dome reechoes to his nose. 
" Now meet thy fate ! " incensed Belinda 
cried. 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck. 
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seal-rings ; which after, melted 

down. 
Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew — 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore, and now Belinda 
wears.) 
"Boast not my fall (he cried), insulting 
foe! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ; 
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind ; 
AH that I dread is leaving you behind ! 



Rather than so, dh let me still survive. 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." 
"Restore the lock!" she cries; and all 

around 
"Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs re- 
bound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his 

pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with 

pain, 
In every place is sought, but sought in vain ; 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest. 
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can 

contest ? 
Some thought it mounted to the lunar 

sphere. 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured 

there ; 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous 

vases, 
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases; 
There broken vows, and deathbed alms are 

found, 
And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, 
The courtier's promises, and sick men's 

prayers. 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise. 
Though marked by none but quick poetic 

eyes: 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens 

withdrew. 
To Proculus alone confessed in view ;) 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air. 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 
The heavens bespangling with dishevelled 

light. 
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 
And, pleased, pursue its progress through the 

skies. 
This the beau monde shall from the Mall 

survey. 
And hail with music its propitious ray ; 
This the blest lover shall for Venus take. 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake ; 



416 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless 
skies 

When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ; 

And hence th' egregious wizard shall fore- 
doom 

The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 
Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy 
ravished hair, 

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 

Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, 

Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 

For after all the murders of your eye, 

When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; 

When those fair suns shall set, as set they 
must, 

And all those tresses shall be laid in dust — 

This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 

And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 
Alexander Pope. 



THE DIYERTING HISTORY OF JOHN 
GILPIN, 

SHOWmO- HOW HE WENT FAETHEE THAN HE 
INTENDED, AND CAME SAEE HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown ; 
A trainband captain eke was he. 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 
" Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

" To-morrow is our wedding day. 

And we wiU then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

" My sister, and my sister's child. 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, " I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear ; 

Therefore it shall be done. 



" I am a linendraper bold. 

As aU the world doth know ; 
And my good friend, the calender, 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That's well said; 

And, for that wine is dear, 
We wiU be furnished with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 

O'erjoyed was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent. 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought; 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stayed 

Where they did aU get in — 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the 
wheels- — 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath. 

As if Oheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride — 

But soon came down again : 

For saddletree scarce reached had he. 

His journey to begin. 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came : for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore. 
Yet loss of pence, full weU he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'T was long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind ; 
When Betty, screaming, came down stairs — 

" The wme is left behind ! " 



THE HISTORY OP JOHN GILPIN. 



41Y 



" Good lack ! " quoth lie — " yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In wliicli I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew. 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones. 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot. 

Which galled him in his seat. 

So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasped the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out. 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow — the cloak did fly. 

Like streamer long and gay ; 
Till, loop and button failing both. 

At last it flew awav. 
27 



Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung — 
A bottle swinging at each side. 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done ! " 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around — 
"He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

' Tis for a thousand pound!" 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

' Twas wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seemed to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols did he play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop. 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpin I here 's the house, 

They all at once did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired: " 

Said Gilpin— " So am I ! " 



418 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


But yet his horse was not a whit 


Said John, " It is my wedding day, 


Inclined to tarry there ; 


And all the world would stare 


For why ? — his owner had a house 


If wife should dine at Edmonton, 


Full ten miles off, at Ware. 


And I should dine at Ware." 


So like an arrow swift he flew, 


So turning to his horse, he said 


Shot by an archer strong ; 


" I am in haste to dine ; 


So did he fly — which brings me to 


' Twas for your pleasure you came here — 


The middle of my song. 


You shall go back for mine." 


Away went Gilpin out of breath, 


Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, 


And. sore against his will, 


For which he paid full dear ! 


Till at his friend the calender's 


For, while he spake, a braying ass 


His horse at last stood still. 


Did sing most loud and clear; 


The calender, amazed to see 


Whereat his horse did snort, as he 


His neighbor in such trim. 


Had heard a lion roar, 


Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 


And galloped off with all his might, 


And thus accosted him : 


As he had done before. 


" What news ? what news? your tidings tell ; 


Away went Gilpin, and away 


Tell me you must and shall — 


Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 


Say why bareheaded you are come. 


He lost them sooner than at first. 


Or why you come at all? " 


For why ? — ^they were too big. 


Kow Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 


Kow Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 


And loved a timely joke ; 


Her husband posting down 


And thus unto the calender 


Into the country far away. 


In merry guise he spoke : 


She pulled out half a crown ; 


" I came because your horse would come ; 


And thus unto the youth she said. 


And, if I well forebode. 


That drove them to the Bell, 


My hat and wig will soon be here, 


" This shall be yours when you bring back 


They are upon the road." 


My husband safe and well." 


The calender, right glad to find 


The youth did ride, and soon did meet 


His friend in merry pin, 


John coming back amain — 


Eeturned him not a single word, 


Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 


But to the house went in ; 


By catching at his rein ; 


Whence straight he came with hat and wig : 


But not performing what he meant. 


A wig that flowed behind. 


And gladly would have done, 


A hat not much the worse for wear — 


The frighted steed he frighted more. 


Each comely in its kind. 


And made him faster run. 


He held them up, and in his turn 


Away went Gilpin, and away 


Thus showed his ready wit — 


Went post-boy at his heels. 


" My head is twice as big as yours. 


The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 


They therefore needs must fit. 


The lumbering of the wheels. 


" But let me scrape the dirt away 


Six gentlemen upon the road. 


That hangs upon your face ; 


Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 


And stop and eat, for well you may 


With post-boy scampering in the rear, 


Be in a hungry case." 


They raised the hue and ciy : 



MASSACRE OF THE MACFHERSON. 419 


" Stop thief ! stop thief !— a highwayman ! " 


IV. 


Not one of them was mute ; 


" Coot tay to you, sir ! 


And all and each that passed that way 


Are not you ta Fhairshon? 


Did join in the pursuit. 


Was you coming here 


And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The toll-men thinking as before, 


To visit any person? 

You are a plackguard, sir ! 

It is now six hundred 


That Gilpin rode a race. 


Coot long years, and more, 




Since my glen was plundered." 


And so he did, and won it too, 




For he got first to town ; 


V. 


Nor stopped till where he had got up 


" Fat is tat you say ? 


He did again get down. 


Dar you cock your peaver? 




I will teach you, sir, 


Now let us sing, long live the king ! 


J 1 7 

Fat is coot pehaviour ! 


And Gilpin, long live he ; 


You shall not exist 


And when he next doth ride abroad, 


For another day more ; 


May I be there to see ! 

■William Cowpee. 


I will shot you, sir. 




Or stap you with my claymore ! " 

VI. 

"I am fery glad 


♦ 
MASSACRE OF THE MAOPHERSON. 


I. 


To learn what you mention. 


Fhaieshon swore a feud 


Since I can prevent 


Against the clan M'Tavish — 
Marched into their land 


Any such intention." 
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 


To murder and to rafish ; 


Gave some warlike howls, 


For he did resolve 


Trew his skhian-dhu, 


To extirpate the vipers, 


An' stuck it in his powels. 


With four-and-twenty men. 




And five-and-thirty pipers. 


VII. 


TT 


In this fery way 


11. 


Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 


But when he had gone 


Who was always thought 


Half-way down Strath Canaan, 
Of his fighting tail 


A superior person. 
Fhairshon had a son. 


Just three were remainin'. 


Who married Noah's daughter. 


They were all he had 
To back him in ta battle ; 


And nearly spoiled ta Flood 
By trinking up ta water — 


All the rest had gone 




Oflf to drive ta cattle. 


VIII. 


m. 


Which he would have done. 


"Fery coot! " cried Fhabshon— 


I at least believe it, 


" So my clan disgraced is ; 


Had ta mixture peen 


Lads, we'll need to fight 


Only half Glenlivet. 


Pefore we touch ta peasties. 


This is all my tale : 


Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 


Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye! 


Coming wi' his fassals— 


Here's your fery good healths, 


Gillies seventy-three, 


And tamn ta whusky tuty ! 


And sixty Dhuinewassails ! " 


William Edmondstottne Attoun. 



420 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



TAM 0' SHATTER. 

A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 

Gamin Douglass. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While "we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' getting fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
JSTursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 

O Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum ; 
That frae IlTovember till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet 
To think how monie counsels sweet. 
How monie lengthened sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tarn had got planted unco right. 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony — 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 



The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better. 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
A moment white — ^then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
l^Tae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride — 
That hour o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he takes the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed; 
That night a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg), 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire — 
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, 
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn ; 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 



421 



And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods : 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees. 
Kirk- Alio way seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thi'o' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we '11 face the Devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's nod- 
dle, 
Fair play, he car'd na Deils a bodle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight — 
Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast — 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large — 
To gie them music was his charge ; 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. 
Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl. 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrips sleight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light — 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new cutted fra a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft — 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout ; 
And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk : 



Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfn'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed, and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they 

cleckit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark. 

Now Tam, O Tam ! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping in their teens : 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw- white seventeen-hunder linen ; 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock — 
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie. 
There was ae winsome wench and walie. 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Oarrick shore ! 
For monie a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd monie a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn — 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) — 
Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r. 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r •, 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jad she was and Strang) ; 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd. 
Ev'n Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main ; 
Till first ae caper, syne anither — 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, Weel done^ Cutty-sarh ! 
And in an instant a' was dark ; 



422 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When Catch the thief! resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs — the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou '11 get thy fair- 
in'! 
In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' — 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
itsTow, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss — 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ; 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shaU read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tam! o' Shanter's mare. 

EOBEET BtJENS. 



COLOGNE. 

In Koln, a town of monks and bones, 

And pavements fanged with murderous stones, 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches — 

I counted two and seventy stenches, 

All well defined and several stinks! 

Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 

The river Rhine, it is well known, 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 

But tell me, Nymphs ! what power divine 

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 

Samuel Tayloe Coleeidge. 



THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 



From his brimstone bed at break of day 
A walking the Devil is gone, 

To visit his snug little farm, the Earth, 
And see how his stock goes on. 



Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain ; 
And backward and forward he switched his 
long tail, 

As a gentleman switches his cane. 



And how then was the Devil drest ? 

O ! he was in his Sunday's best : 

His jacket was red and his breeches were 

blue, 
And there was a hole where the tail came 

through. 

IV. 

He saw a lawyer killing a viper 

On a dunghill, hard by his own stable ; 

And the DevU smiled, for it put him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother Abel. 

V. 

He saw an Apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the Devil thought of his old friend 

Death, in the Revelations. 

VI. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility ; 
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

VII. 

He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop — 
Quoth he, "We are both of one college! 

For I sate, myself, like a cormorant, once, 
Hard by the tree of knowledge." 

vin. 
Down the river did glide, with wind and with 
tide, 
A pig with vast celerity ; 



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY 


AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 423 


And the Devil looked wise as he saw how, 


XVI. 


the while, 

It cut its own throat. " There ! " quoth he 


He took from the poor. 
And he gave to the rich. 


with a smile, 
Goes England's comniercial prosperity." 


And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the 

* * * * 


IX. 

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 

A solitary cell ; 
And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a 


xvu. 

General burning face 

He saw with consternation. 
And back to hell his way did he take — 


hint 
For improving his prisons in Hell. 

X. 

He saw a turnkey in a trice 
Fetter a troublesome blade ; 


For the Devil thought by a slight mistake 
It was general conflagration. 

Samtjel Taylob Coleeidge. 




"Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move 
If a man be but used 'to his trade." 


THE FEIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE 
KNIFE-GRINDEE. 


XI. 


FEIEND OF HUMANITY. 


He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man 

"With but little expedition ; 
Which put him in mind of the long debate 

On the Slave-trade abolition. 


"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you 

going ? 
Rough is the road ; your wheel is out of order. 
Bleak blows the blast ; — ^your hat has got a 

hole in 't ; 


xn. 


So have your breeches ! 


He saw an old acquaintance 

As he passed by a Methodist meeting ; 
She holds a consecrated key. 

And the Devil nods her a greeting. 


" Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud 

ones, 
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, 

' Knives and 


Xlil, 


Scissors to grind ! ' 


She turned up her nose, and said, 
"A vaunt ! — ^my name 's Keligion ! " 

And she looked to Mr. 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 

XIV. 


"Tell me. Knife-grinder, how came you to 

grind knives ? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish? 
Or the attorney? 


He saw a certain minister 
(A minister to his mind) 

Go up into a certain House, 
With a majority behind ; 


"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or 
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? 
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 


XY. 

The Devil quoted Genesis, 
Like a very learned clerk, 

How " Noah and his creeping things 
Went up into the Ark." 


"(Have you not read the Eights of Man, by 

Tom Paine?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
Eeady to fall, as soon as you have told your 
Pitiful story." 



124 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



KNIFE-GEmDEE. 

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, 

Sir; 
Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, 

were 
Torn in a scuffle. 

" Constables came up for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- 
stocks for a vagrant. 

"I should be glad to drink your honor's 

health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to meddle 
"With politics. Sir." 

FEIEND OP HUMANITY. 

" I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned 

first — 
"Wretch 1 whom no sense of wrongs can rouse 

to vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. 
Spiritless outcast ! " 

[Kicks the Knife-grinder^ overturns his wheel, and exit 
in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and tmi- 
veraal philanthropy.} 

Geoege Canning. 



SONG 



OF ONE ELEVEN TEAES IN PEISON. 

"Whene'ee with haggard eyes I view 
This dungeon that I 'm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 
[ Weeps and pulls out a Mue herchief vMh wldch he 
wi^es his eyes; gaging tenderly at it^ he proceeds .'] 

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, 

Which once my love sat knotting in — 
Alas, Matilda then was true ! 
At least I thought so at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 
\At the repetition of tMs line he clanks Ids chains in 
cadence.} 



Barbs ! barbs I alas ! how swift you flew, 

Her neat post- wagon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
Forlorn I languished at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

This faded form I this pallid hue ! 

This blood my veins is clotting in ! 
My years are many — ^they were few 
When first I entered at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

There first for thee my passion grew. 

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
tor, law-professor at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu. 
That kings and priests are plotting in ; 
Here doomed to starve on water gru- 
el, never shall I see the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen, 

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeat- 
edly against the walls of his prison^ and finally 
so hard as to produce a msihle contusion. He then 
throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain 
drops^ the music still contimmig to play till it is 
wholly fallen.} 

Geoege Canning. 



THE LITTLE BKOWN MAN". 

A little man we 've here, 
All in a suit of brown, 
Fpon town ; 
He 's as brisk as bottled beer, 
And, without a shilling rent, 
Lives content : 
" For d'ye see," says he, " my plan — 
D'ye see," says he, " my plan — 
My plan, d'ye see, 's to — laugh at that ! " 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown 
Man. 



THE ESSENCE OF OPERA. 



426 



When every mad grisette 
He has toasted, till his score 
Holds no more ; 
Then head and ears in debt, 
When the duns and bums abound 
All around, 
" D'ye see," says he, "my plan — 
D'ye see," says he, " my plan — 
My plan, d'ye see, 's to — ^laugh at that ! " 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown 
Man! 

When the rain comes through his attic, 
And he lies all day a-bed 
Without bread ; 
When the winter winds rheumatic 
Make him blow his nails, for du'e 
Want of fire, 
" D'ye see," says he, "my plan — 
D'ye see," says he, " my plan — 
My plan, d'ye see, 's to — ^laugh at that ! " 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown 
Man! 

His wife, a dashing figure, 
Makes shift to pay her clothes 
By her beaux ; 
The gallanter they rig her, 
The more the people sneer 
At her dear : 
" Then d'ye see," says he, " my plan — 
D'ye see," says he, "my plan — 
My plan, d'ye see, 's to — ^laugh at that ! " 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown 
Man! 

When at last laid fairly level, 
And the priest (he getting worse) 
'Gan discourse 
Of death and of the Devil, 
Our little sinner sighed, 
And replied : 
" Please your reverence, my plan — 
Please your reverence, my plan — 
My plan, d'ye see, 's to — ^laugh at that ! " 
Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown 
Man! 

PiEEEE Jean de Beeangee. (Freneli.) 
Anonymous Translation. 



THE ESSENCE OF OPERA 

OE, ALMANZOE AND IMOGEN. 

An Opera^ in three Acts. 



SUBJECT OF THE OPEEA. 

A brave young Prince a young Princess adores ; 
A combat kills Mm, but a god restores. 

PEOLOGUE. 

A Musician. People, appear, approach, ad- 
vance ! 

To Singers. 
You that can sing, the chorus bear ! 

To Dancers. 
You that can turn your toes out, dance ! 
Let 's celebrate this faithful pair. 



ACT L 

Imogen. My love ! 
Almanzoe. My soul ! 

Both. At length then we unite ! 
People, sing, dance, and show us your delight ! 
Ohoeus. Let 's sing, and dance, and show 
'em our delight. 



ACT n. 
Imogen. love ! 
\A noise of war. The Prince appears, pursued "by Ms 
e/aermies. Combat. The Princess faints. The Prince 
is mortally wounded.] 

Almanzoe. Alas! 
Imogen. Ah, what ! 

Almanzoe. I die I 

Imogen. Ah me ! 

People, sing, dance, and show your misery ! 
Choeijs. Let's sing, and dance, and show 
our misery. 



ACT IIL 

{Pallas descends in a cloud to Almansor and speaks.] 
Pallas. Almanzor, live ! 
Imogen. Oh, bliss! 
Almanzoe. What do I see ? 
Teio. People, sing, dance, and hail this 

prodigy ! 
OnoErs. Let's sing, and dance, and hail 

this prodigy. 

Anonymous Translation. 



Anonymous (French). 



426 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


HYPOOHONDRIACUS. 


A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 


Bt myself walking, 


Mat the Babylonish curse 


To myself talking, 


Strait confound my stammering verse. 


"When as I ruminate 


If I can a passage see 


On my imtoward fate, 


In this word-perplexity. 


Scarcely seem I 


Or a fit expression find. 


Alone sufficiently, 


Or a language to my mind 


Black thoughts continually 


(Still the phrase is wide or scant), 


Crowding my privacy ; 


To take leave of thee, great plant ! 


They come unbidden, 


Or in any terms relate 


Like foes at a wedding, 


Half my love, or half my hate ; 


Thrusting their faces 


For I hate, yet love, thee so. 


In better guests' places, 


That, whichever thing I shew. 


Peevish and malcontent, 


The plain truth will seem to be 


Clownish, impertinent, 


A constrained hyperbole. 


Dashing the merriment : 


And the passion to proceed 


So, in like fashions, 


More for a mistress than a weed. 


Dim cogitations 




Follow and haunt me, 


Sooty retainer to the vine ! 


Striving to daunt me, 


Bacchus's black servant, negro fine ! 


In my heart festering, 


Sorcerer ! that mak'st us dote upon 


In my ears whispering — 


Thy begrimed complexion. 


" Thy friends are treacherous. 


And, for thy pernicious sake, 


Thy foes are dangerous. 


More and greater oaths to break 


Thy dreams ominous." 


Than reclaimed lovers take 




'Gainst women ! Thou thy siege dost lay 




Much, too, in the female way, 


Fierce Anthropophagi, 


While thou suck's t the lab'ring breath 


Spectres, Diaboli — 


Faster than kisses, or than death. 


"What scared St. Anthony — 




Hobgoblins, Lemures, 


Thou in such a cloud dost bind us 


Dreams of Antipodes ! 


That our worst foes cannot find us, 


Night-riding Incubi 


And ill fortune, that would thwart us. 


Troubling the fantasy. 


Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 


All dire illusions 


While each man, through thy height'ning 


Causing confusions : 


steam. 


Figments heretical. 


Does like a smoking Etna seem ; 


Scruples fantastical, 


And all about us does express 


Doubts diabolical ! 


(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 


Abaddon vexeth me ; 


A Sicilian fruitfulness. 


Mahu perplexeth me ; 




Lucifer teareth me — 


Thou through such a mist dost show us 




That our best friends do not know us. 


Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris 


And, for those allowed features 


tentationibus Inimici. 


Due to reasonable creatures. 


Chaeles Lamb. 


Liken'st us to fell chimeras, 




Monsters — that who see us, fear us ; 
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 






Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 



A FAREWELL 


TO TOBACCO. 42Y 


Bacchus we know, and we allow 


Or in part but to express 


His tipsy rites. But what art thou, 


That exceeding comeliness 


That but by reflex can'st shew 


Which their fancies doth so strike 


What his deity can do — 


They borrow language of dislike ; 


As the false Egyptian spell 


And, instead of dearest Miss, 


Aped the true Hebrew miracle? 


Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, 


Some few vapors thou may'st raise. 


And those forms of old admiring, 


The weak brain may serve to amaze ; 


Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 


But to the reins and nobler heart 


Basilisk, and all that's evil. 


Can'st nor life nor heat impart. 


Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, 




Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 


Brother of Bacchus, later born ! 


Monkey, Ape, and twenty more — 


The old world was sure forlorn, 


Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe — 


Wanting thee, that aidest more 


Not that she is truly so. 


The god's victories than, before, 


But no other way they know 


All his panthers, and the brawls 


A contentment to express 


Of his piping Bacchanals. 


Borders so upon excess 


These, as stale, we disallow. 


That they do not rightly wot 


Or judge of thee meant : only thou 


Whether it be from pain or not. 


His true Indian conquest art ; 


Or, as men, constrained to part 


And, for ivy round his dart. 


With what 's nearest to their heart, 


The reformed god now weaves 


While their sorrow 's at the height 


A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 


Lose discrimination quite. 




And their hasty wrath let fall, 


Scent to match thy rich perfumo 


To appease their frantic gall. 


Chemic art did ne'er presume — 


On the darling thing, whatever, 


Through her quaint alembic strain, 


Whence they feel it death to sever, 


None so so v 'reign to the brain. 


Though it be, as they, perforce, 


Nature, that did in thee excel, 


Guiltless of the sad divorce. 


Framed again no second smell. 




Eoses, violets, but toys 


For I must (nor let it grieve thee, 


For the smaller sort of boys, 


Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave 


Or for greener damsels meant; 


thee. 


Thou art the only manly scent. 


For thy sake. Tobacco, I 




Would do anything but die. 


Stinking'st of the stinking kind ! 


And but seek to extend my days 


Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! 


Long enough to sing thy praise. 


Africa, that brags her foyson, 


But, as she, who once hath been 


Breeds no such prodigious poison ! 


A king's consort, is a queen 


Henbane, nightshade, both together, 


Ever after, nor will bate 


Hemlock, aconite 


Any tittle of her state 




Though a widow, or divorced — 


Nay, rather, 


So I, from thy converse forced. 


Plant divine, of rarest virtue ! 


The old name and style retain. 


Blisters on the tongue would hurt you ! 


A right Catherine of Spain ; 


'T was but in a sort I blamed thee ; 


And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 


None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; 


Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 


Irony all, and feigned abuse, 


Where though I, by sour physician. 


Such as perplext lovers use 


Am debarred the fall fruition 


At a need, when, in despair 


Of thy favors, I may catch 


To paint forth their fairest fair, 


Some collateral sweets, and snatch 



428 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Sidelong odors, that give life 
Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; 
And still live in the by-places 
And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
And in thy borders take dehght, 
An unconquered Canaanite. 

Chakles Lamb. 



SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH 
CLOISTEK. 



Ge-k-e — ^there go, my heart's abhorrence ! 

Water your damned flower-pots, do ! 
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, 

God's blood, would not mine kill you ! 
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? 

Oh, that rose has prior claims — 
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming ? 

Hell dry you up with its flames ! 



At the meal we sit together : 

Salve tibi ! I must hear 
Wise talk of the kind of weather, 

Sort of season, time of year : 
Not a plenteous cork-crop : scarcely 

Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt : 
What's the Latin name for "parsley?" 

What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? 

ni. 

Whew ! We '11 have our platter burnished, 

Laid with care on our own shelf! 
With a fire-new spoon we 're furnished, 

And a goblet for ourself, 
Kinsed like something sacrificial 

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — 
Marked with L. for our initial ! 

(He, he ! There his lily snaps !) 



Saint, forsooth I While brown Dolores 

Squats outside the Convent bank, 
With Sanchicha. telling stories, 

Steeping tresses in the tank. 
Blue-black, lustrous, thick, like horsehairs, 

— Can't I see his dead eye glow 
Bright, as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? 

(That is, if he 'd let it show !) 



L_ 



When he finishes refection. 

Knife and fork he never lays 
Cross-wise, to my recollection, 

As do I, in Jesu's praise. 
I the Trinity illustrate. 

Drinking watered orange-pulp — 
In three sips the Arian frustrate ; 

While he drains his at one gulp ! 

VI. 

Oh, those melons ! If he 's able 

We 're to have a feast ; so nice ! 
One goes to the Abbot's table ; 

AU of us get each a slice. 
How go on your flowers ? None double ' 

Not one fruit-sort can you spy ? 
Strange ! — And I, too, at such trouble, 

Keep 'em close-nipped on the sly I 

vn. 

There's a great text in Galatians, 

Once you trip on it, entails 
Twenty-nine distinct damnations — 

One sure, if another fails. 
If I trip him just a-dying. 

Sure of Heaven as sure can be. 
Spin him round and send him flying 

Off to Hell, a Manichee? 



Or my scrofulous French novel. 

On gray paper with blunt type ! 
Simply glance at it, you grovel 

Hand and foot in Belial's gripe : 
If I double down its pages 

At the woeful sixteenth print. 
When he gathers his green gages, 

Ope a sieve and slip it in 't ? 

IX. 

Or, there's Satan! — one might venture 

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave 
Such a flaw in the indenture 

As he 'd miss, till past retrieve, 
Blasted lay that rose-acacia 

We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . 
'St, there 's Vespers ! Plena gratia 

Ave Virgo ! Gr-r-r — you swine ! 

KOBEET BeOTTNING. 



FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 



429 



FAITHLESS NELLY GKAY. 

A PATHETIC BALLAD. 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 

And used to war's alarms ; 
But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 

So be laid down bis arms ! 

Now as tbey bore bim off tbe field. 
Said be, " Let otbers sboot; 

For bere I leave my second leg, 
And tbe Forty-second Foot ! " 

Tbe army-surgeons made bim limbs : 
Said be, " Tbey 're only pegs ; 

But tbere 's as wooden members quite. 
As represent my legs ! " 

Now Ben be loved a pretty maid — 

Her name was Nelly Gray ; 
So be went to pay ber bis devours, 

Wben be devoured bis pay ! 

But wben be called on Nelly Gray, 
Sbe made bim quite a scoff; 

And wben sbe saw bis wooden legs, 
Began to take tbem off ! 

" O, NeUy Gray ! O, Nelly Gray ! 

Is tbis your love so warm ? 
Tbe love tbat loves a scarlet coat 

Sbould be more uniform ! " 

Said sbe, " I loved a soldier once. 
For be was blitbe and brave ; 

But I will never bave a man 
Witb botb legs in tbe grave ! 

"Before you bad tbose timber toes 

Your love I did allow ; 
But tben, you know, you stand upon 

Anotber footing now ! " 

" 0, NeUy Gray ! 0, NeUy Gray ! 

For all your jeering speecbes, 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajos's breacbes ! " 

" Wby tben," said sbe, "you've lost tbe 
feet 

Of legs in war's alarms. 
And now you cannot wear your sboes 

Upon your feats of arms ! " 



" O, false and fickle Nelly Gray I 

I know wby you refuse : 
Tbougb I 've no feet, some otber man 

Is standing in my sboes ! 

" I wisb I ne'er bad seen your face; 

But, now, a long farewell ! 
For you will be my deatb ; — alas ! 

You will not be my Nell ! " 

Now wben be went from Nelly Gray 

His beart so beavy got. 
And life was sucb a burden grown, 

It made bim take a knot ! 

So round bis melancboly neck 

A rope be did entwine, 
And, for bis second time in life, 

Enlisted in tbe Line ! 

One end be tied around a beam, 
And tben removed bis pegs ; 

And, as bis legs were oft', — of course 
He soon was off bis legs ! 

And tbere be bung, till be was dead 

As any nail in town ; 
For, tbougb distress bad cut bim up, 

It could not cut bim down ! 

A dozen men sat on bis corpse, 

To find out wby be died — 
And tbey buried Ben in four cross-roads, 

Witb a stake in bis inside ! 

Thomas Hood. 



FAITHLESS SALLY BEOWN. 

AN OLD BALLAD. 

Young Ben be was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade ; 
And be fell in love witb Sally Brown, 

Tbat was a lady's maid. 

But as tbey fetcbed a walk one day, 
Tbey met a press-gang crew ; 

And Sally sbe did faint away, 
"Wbilst Ben be was brougbt to. 

Tbe boatswain swore witb wicked words, 

Enougb to sbock a saint, 
Tbat tbougb sbe did seem in a fit, 

'T was nothing but a feint. 



480 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


" Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head — 


Then reading on his 'bacco box. 


He '11 he as good as me ; 


He heaved a heavy sigh. 


For when your swain is in our hoat 


And then began to eye his pipe, 


A hoatswain he will he." 


And then to pipe his eye. 


So when they 'd made their game of her, 


And then he tried to sing " All 's Well," 


And taken off her elf, 


But could not, though he tried ; 


She roused, and found she only was 


His head was turned — and so he chewed 


A coming to herself. 


His pigtail till he died. 


" And is he gone, and is he gone ? " 


His death, which happened in his berth, 


She cried, and wept outright : 


At forty-odd befell ; 


" Then I will to the water-side, 


They went and told the sexton, and 


And see him out of sight." 


The sexton tolled the bell. 




Thomas Hood. 


A waterman came up to her : 
"ISTow, young woman," said he. 






" If you weep on so, you will make 




Eye- water in the sea." 


A TABLE OF ERRATA. 


" Alas ! they Ve taken my beau, Ben, 


Hostess loquitur. 


To sail with old Benbow; " 


Well ! thanks be to Heaven, 


And her woe began to run afresh. 


The summons is given ; 


As if she 'd said, Gee woe! 


It 's only gone seven 


Says he, " They 've only taken him 
To the tender-ship, you see : " 

" The tender-ship," cried Sally Brown — 
" What a hard-ship that must be ! 


And should have been six ; 
There 's fine overdoing 
In roasting and stewing, 
And victuals past chewing, 
To rags and to sticks ! 


" Oh ! would I were a mermaid now, 




For then I 'd follow him ; 


How dreadfully chilly ! 


But ! — I 'm not a fish- woman. 


I shake, willy-nilly ; 


And so I cannot swim. 


That John is so silly, 




And never will learn ; 


" Alas ! I was not born beneath 


This plate is a cold one ; 


The virgin and the scales, 


That cloth is an old one ; 


So I must curse my cruel stars. 


I wish they had told one 


And walk about in Wales." 


The lamp would 'nt burn. 


Now Ben had sailed to many a place 


Now then for some blunder, 


That 's underneath the world ; 


For nerves to sink under; 


But in two years the ship came home. 


I never shall wonder 


And all her sails were furled. 


Whatever goes ill. 


But when he called on Sally Brown, 


That fish is a riddle- 


To see how she got on. 


It 's broke in the middle : 


He found she 'd got another Ben, 


ATurbot?— afiddle! 


Whose Christian-name was John. 


It's only a Brill! 


" 0, Sally Brown, 0, Sally Brown, 


It 's quite over-boiled too ; 


How could you serve me so ? 


The butter is oiled too ; 


I 've met with many a breeze before. 


The soup is all spoiled too — 


But never such a blow ! " 


It 's nothing but slop. 



A TABLE OF EKRATA. 431 


The smelts looking flabby, 


To send up the brawn ! 


The soles are as dabby ; 


That cook, I could scold her, 


It is so shabby — 


Gets worse as she 's older ; 


That cook shall not stop ! 


I wonder who told her 




That woodcocks are drawn I 


As sure as the morning 




She gets a month's warning, 


It 's really audacious ! 


My orders for scorning — 


I cannot look gracious. 


There 's nothing to eat ! 


Lord help the voracious 


I hear such a rushing ; 


That came for a cram ! 


I feel such a flushing ; 


There 's Alderman Fuller 


I know I am blushing 


Gets duller and duller. 


As red as a beet! 


Those fowls, by the colour. 


Friends flatter and flatter — 


Were boiled with the ham ! 


I wish they would chatter ; 




"What can be the matter 


WeU, where is the curry ? 


That nothing comes next ? 


I 'm aU in a flurry. 


How very unpleasant ! 


No, cook 's in no hurry — 


Lord ! there is the pheasant ! 


A stoppage again ! 


Not wanted at present — 


And John makes it wider — 


I 'm born to be vext ! 


A pretty provider ! 




By bringing up cider 


The pudding brought on too. 


Instead of champagne ! 


And aiming at ton too ! 




And where is that John too, 


My troubles come faster ! 


The plague that he is ? 


There 's my lord and master 


He 's off on some ramble. 


Detects each disaster. 


And there is Miss Campbell 


And hardly can sit. 


Enjoying the scramble — 


He cannot help seeing 


Detestable quiz ! 


All things disagreeing ; 


The veal they all eye it. 
But no one will try it ; 


If lie begins d— ing, 
I 'm off in a fit ! 


An ogre would shy it — 




So ruddy as that ! 


This cooking ? — ^it 's messing I 


And as for the mutton, 


The spinach wants pressing. 


The cold dish it 's put on 


And salads in dressing 


Converts to a button 


Are best with good eggs. 


Each drop of the fat. 


And John — yes, already — 




Has had something heady. 


The beef without mustard ! 


That makes him unsteady 


My fate 's to be flustered ; 


In keeping his legs. 


And there comes the custard 




To eat with the hare ! 


How shall I get through it? 


Such flesh, fowl, and fishing. 


I never can do it ; 


Such waiting and dishing ! 


I 'm quite looking to it. 


I cannot help wishing 


To sink by and by. 


A woman might swear ! 


! would I were dead now, 




Or up in my bed now, 


dear ! did I ever ? 


To cover my head now 


But no, I did never — 


And have a good cry ! 


Well, come, that is clever, 


Thomas Hood. 



432 POEMS OF COMEDY. 




And ne'er a cork jacket 


THE LADY AT SEA. 


On board of the packet ; 




The breeze still a-stiffening ; 


Cables entangling her ; 
Ship-spars for mangling her 
Kopes sure of strangling her ; 
Blocks over-dangling her ; 


The trumpet quite deafening; 
Thoughts of repentance, 
And doomsday, and sentence ; 
Every thing sinister — 
iNTot a church minister ; 


Tiller to batter her ; 


Pilot a blunderer ; 


Topmast to shatter her ; 


Coral reefs under her, 


Tobacco to spatter her ; 
Boreas blustering ; 
Boatswain quite flustering; 
Thunder-clouds mustering, 
To blast her with sulphur — 
If the deep don 't ingulph her ; 
Sometimes fear 's scrutiny- 


Keady to sunder her : 
Trunks tipsy-topsy; 
The ship in a dropsy ; 
"Waves oversurging her ; 
Sirens a-dirging her ; 
Sharks all expecting her ; 
Sword-fish dissecting her ; 


Pries out a mutiny, 


Crabs with their hand- vices 


Sniffs conflagration. 
Or hints at starvation ; 


Punishing land vices ; 
Sea-dogs and unicorns, 


All the sea dangers, 


Things with no puny horns; 


Buccaneers, rangers. 


Mermen carnivorous — 


Pirates, and Sallee-men, 


" Good Lord deliver us ! " 


Algerine galleymen. 


Thomas Hood. 


Tornadoes and typhons, 




And horrible syphons. 




And submarine travels 




Thro' roaring sea-navels ; 


THE WHITE SQUALL. 


Every thing wrong enough — 




Long-boat not long enough ; 


On decK, beneath the awning, 


Vessel not strong enough ; 


I dozing lay and yawning ; 


Pitch marring frippery ; 


It was the gray of dawning. 


The deck very slippery ; 


Ere yet the sun arose ; 


And the cabin — built sloping ; 


And above the funnel's roaring, 


The Captain a-toping ; 


And the fitful wind's deploring. 


And the mate a blasphemer. 


I heard the cabin snoring 


That names his Eedeemer — 


With universal nose. 


With inward uneasiness ; 


I could hear the passengers snorting — 


The cook known by greasiness ; 


I envied their disporting — 


The victuals beslubbered ; 


Vainly I was courting 


Her bed — ^in a cupboard; 


The pleasure of a doze. 


Things of strange christening, 




Snatched in her listening ; 


So I lay, and wondered why light 


Blue lights and red lights. 


Came not, and watched the twilight, 


And mention of dead lights ; 


And the glimmer of the skylight, 


And shrouds made a theme of— 


That shot across the deck ; 


Things horrid to dream of; 


And the binnacle pale and steady. 


And buoys in the water ; 


And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 


To fear aU e^xhort her. 


And the sparks in fiery eddy 


Her friend no Leander — 


That whirled from the chimney neck. 


Herself no sea gander ; 


In our jovial floating prison 



THE WHITE SQUALL. 



438 



There was sleep from fore to mizzen, 
And never a star had risen 

The hazy sky to speck. 
Strange company we harbored : 
We 'd a liundred Jews to larboard, 
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered — 

Jews black, and brown, and gray. 

With terror it would seize ye, 
And make your souls uneasy. 
To see those Rabbis greasy, 

Who did nought but scratch and pray. 
Their dirty children puking — 
Their dirty saucepans cooking — 
Their dirty fingers hooking 

Their swarming fleas away. 

To starboard Turks and Greeks were — 
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were — 
Enormous wide their breeks were — 

Their pipes did puff away ; 
Each on his mat allotted 
In silence smoked and squatted, 
Whilst round their children trotted 

In pretty, pleasant play. 
He can't but smile who traces 
The smiles on those brown faces, 
And the pretty, prattling graces 

Of those small heathens gay. 

And so the hours kept toUing — 
And through the ocean rolling 
Went the brave Iberia bowling, 
Before the break of day 

When a squall, upon a sudden, 
Came o'er the waters scudding ; 
And the clouds began to gather, 
And the sea was lashed to lather, 
And the lowering thunder grumbled, 
And the lightning jumped and tumbled ; 
And the ship, and ail the ocean, 
Woke up in wild commotion. 
Then the wind set up a howling. 
And the poodle dog a yowling, 
And the cocks began a crowing. 
And the old cow raised a lowing, 
As she heard the tempest blowing ; 
And fowls and geese did cackle ; 
And the cordage and the tackle 
Began to shriek and crackle ; 
28 



And the spray dashed o'er the funnels. 
And down the deck in runnels ; 
And the rushing water soaks all, 
From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
To the stokers, whose black faces 
P.eer out of their bed-places ; 
And the captain he was bawling, 
And the sailors pulling, hauling. 
And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
Was shivered in the squalling ; 
And the passengers awaken. 
Most pitifully shaken ; 
And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
For the necessary basins. 

Then the Greeks they groaned and quiv- 
ered, 
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered. 
As the plunging waters met them. 
And splashed and overset them ; 
And they called in their emergence 
Upon countless saints and virgins ; 
And their marrowbones are bended, 
And they think the world is ended. 
And the Turkish women for'ard 
Were frightened and behorrored ; 
And, shrieking and bewildering, 
The mothers clutched their children ; 
The men sang " Allah ! lUah ! 
Mashallah Bismillah ! " 
As the warring waters doused them. 
And splashed them and soused them ; 
And they called upon the Prophet, 
And thought but little of it. 

Then all the fleas in Jewry 

Jumped up and bit like fury : 

And the progeny of Jacob 

Did on the main-deck wake up, 

(I wot those greasy Rabbins 

Would never pay for cabins ;) 

And each man moaned and jabbered in 

His filthy Jewish gabardine, 

In woe and lamentation. 

And howling consternation. 

And the splashing water drenches 

Their dirty brats and wenches ; 

And they crawl from bales and flenches, 

In a hundred thousand stenches. 

This was the white squall famous, 
Which latterly o'ercame us, 



434 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And which all will remember, 

On the 28th September : 

When a Prussian captain of Lancers 

(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 

Came on the deck astonished, 

By that wild squall admonished. 

And wondering cried, " Potz tausend, 

Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend? " 

And looked at Captain Lewis, 

Who calml J stood and blew his 

Cigar in all the bustle. 

And scorned the tempest's tussle ; 

And oft we 've thought thereafter 

How he beat the storm to laughter ; 

For well he knew his vessel 

With that vain wind could wrestle ; 

And when a wreck we thought her, 

And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 

How gaily he fought her. 

And through the hubbub brought her, 

And as the tempest caught her. 

Cried, "George, some brandy and water!" 

And when, its force expended. 
The harmless storm was ended, 
And as the sunrise splendid 

Came blushing o'er the sea, — 
I thought, as day was breaking, 
My little girls were waking, 
And smiling, and making 

A prayer at home for me. 

"William Makepeace Thackeeat. 



ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 

On ! St. Patrick was a gentleman. 

Who came of decent people ; 
He built a church in Dublin town, 

And on it put a steeple. 
His father was a Gallagher ; 

His mother was a Brady ; 
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy, 

His*incle an O'Grady. 
So, success attend St. FatricFsJlst^ 

For he 's a saint so clever ; 
1 he gave the snaTces and toads a twist, 

And bothered them for ever ! 



The Wicklow hills are very high, 

And so 's the Hill of Howth, sir ; 
But there 's a hill, much bigger still. 

Much higher nor them both, sir. 
'T was on the top of this high hill 

St. Patrick preached his sarmint 
That drove the frogs into the bogs, 

And banished all the varmint. 
So, success attend St. Patricio's fist. 

For he 's a saint so clever ; 

! he gave the snalces and toads a twist, 
And lothered them for ever ! 

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 

Where dirty varmin masters, 
But there he put his dear fore-foot. 

And murdered them in clusters. 
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop. 

Slap-dash into the water ; 
And the snakes committed suicide 

To save themselves from slaughter. 
So, success attend St. FatricFsfist, 

For he 's a saint so clever ; 

1 he gave the snalces and toads a twist. 
And bothered them for ever / 

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 

He charmed with sweet discourses. 
And dined on them at KiUaloe 

In soups and second courses. 
Where blind worms crawling in the grass 

Disgusted all the nation. 
He gave them a rise, which opened their 
eyes 

To a sense of their situation. 
So, success attend St. Patricks fist. 

For he 's a saint so clever ; 
! he gave the snalces and toads a twist. 

And lothered them for ever ! 

No wonder that those Irish lads 

Should be so gay and frisky. 
For sure St. Pat he taught them that. 

As well as making whiskey ; 
No wonder that the saint himself 

Should understand distilling, 
Since his mother kept a shebeen shop 

In the town of Enniskillen. 
So, success attend St. Patrichh fist, 

For he''s a saint so clever ; 
! he gave the snalces and toads a twist, 

And bothered them for ever I 



ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR. 



435 



O ! was I but so fortunate 

As to be back in Munster, 
'T is I 'd be bound that from that ground 

I never more would once stir. 
For there St. Patrick planted turf, 

And plenty of the praties, 
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store, 

And cabbages — and ladies ! 
Then my Messing on St. PatricWs Jist^ 

For lie 's the darling saint ! 
! he gave the snaJces and toads a twist ; 

He ^s a deauty without paint ! 

Heney Bennett. 



ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR! 

A FIG- for St. Denis of France — 

He 's a trumpery fellow to brag on ; 
A fig for St. George and his lance, 

Which spitted a heathenish dragon ; 
And the saints of the Welshman or Scot 

Are a couple of pitiful pipers. 
Both of whom may just travel to pot, 

Compared with that patron of swipers — 
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear ! 



He came to the Emerald Isle 

On a lump of a paving-stone mounted ; 
The steamboat he beat by a mile. 

Which mighty good sailing was counted. 
Says he, " The salt water, I think, 

Has made me most bloodily thirsty ; 
So bring me a flagon of drink 

To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye ! 
Of drink that is fit for a saint ! " 



He preache'd, then, with wonderful force. 

The ignorant natives a-teaching; 
With a pint he washed down his discourse, 

" For," says he, "I detest your dry preach- 
ing." 
The people, with wonderment struck 

At a pastor so pious and civil. 
Exclaimed — "We 're for you, my old buck ! 

And we pitch our blind gods to the Devil, 
Who dwells in hot water below! " 



This ended, our worshipful spoon 

Went to visit an elegant fellow, 
Whose practice, each cool afternoon, 

Was to get most delightfully meUow. 
That day, with a black-jack of beer. 

It chanced he was treating a party ; 
Says the saint — " This good day, do you hear, 

I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty ! 
So give me a pull at the pot ! " 

The pewter he lifted in sport 

(Believe me, I tell you no fable) ; 
A gallon he drank from the quart. 

And then placed it full on the table. 
"A miracle! " every one said — 

And they all took a haul at the stingo ; 
They were capital hands at the trade, 

And drank till they fell ; yet, by jingo, 

The pot still frothed over the brim ! 

Next day, quoth his host, " 'Tis a fast. 

And I 've nought in my larder but mutton ; 
And on Fridays who 'd make such repast. 

Except an unchristian-like glutton ? " 
Says Pat, " Cease your nonsense, I beg — 

What you tell me is nothing but gammon •, 
Take my compliments down to the leg. 

And bid it come hither a salmon ! " 

And the leg most politely complied. 

You 've heard, I suppose, long ago. 

How the snakes, in a manner most antic. 
He marched to the County Mayo, 

And trundled them into th' Atlantic. 
Hence, not to use water for drink. 

The people of Ireland determine — 
With mighty good reason, I think. 

Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin, 
And vipers, and such other stuff! 

! he was an elegant blade 

As you 'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrum- 
per; 
And though under the sod he is laid. 

Yet here goes his health in a bumper ! 
I wish he was here, that my glass 

He might by art magic replenish ; 
But since he is not — why, alas! 

My ditty must come to a finish, — 
Because all the liquor is out ! 

WrtLiAM Maginn. 



436 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



THE IRISHMAN. 



There was a lady lived at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man — 
And yet, in spite of all her teeth, 
She fell in love with an Irishman — 
A nasty, ugly Irishman — 
A wild, tremendous Irishman — 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, 
ranting, roaring Irishman. 



His face was no ways beautiful. 

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across; 
And the shoulders of the ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
O, the lump of an Irishman — 
The whiskey devouring Irishman — 
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue 
— the. fighting, rioting Irishman ! 

ni. 

One of his eyes was bottle green, 

And the other eye was out, my dear ; 
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs 
Were more than two feet about, my dear ! 
O, the great big Irishman — 
The rattling, battling Irishman — 
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, stagger- 
ing, leathering swash of an Irishman. 



He took so much of Lundy-foot 

That he used to snort and snuffle-0 ; 
And in shape and size the fellow's neck 
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. 
O, the horrible Irishman — 
The thundering, blundering Irishman — 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, 
thrashing, hashing Irishman. 



His name was a terrible name, indeed, 

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; 
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of 
punch 



He 'd not rest till he filled it full again ; 

The boozing, bruising Irishman — 

The 'toxicated L*ishman — 
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, 
no dandy Irishman. 

VI. 

This was the lad the lady loved, 

Like all the girls of quality ; 
And he broke the skulls of the men of 
Leith, 
Just by the way of jollity; 
0, the leathering Irishman — 
The barbarous, savage Irishman — 
The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's 
heads were bothered I'm sure by this 
Irishman. 

William Maginn. 



THE GEO YES OF BLARNEY. 

The groves of Blarney they look so charming, 

Down by the purlings of sweet silent 
brooks — 
All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow 
there. 

Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
'Tis there the daisy, and the sweet aarnation. 

The blooming pink, and the rose so fair ; 
Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly — 

AU flowers that scent the sweet, open air. 

'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair ; 
There's no commander in all the nation 

For regulation can with her compare. 
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 

Could ever plunder her place of strength ; 
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel, 

And made a breach in her battlement. 

There 's gravel walks there for speculation, 

And conversation in sweet solitude ; 
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 

The gentle plover, in the afternoon. 
And if a young lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 
'Tis there her courtier he may transport her 

In some dark fort, or under the ground. 



THE TOWN OF PASSAGE. 437 


For 'tis there's the cave where no daylight 


Mud cabins swarm in 


enters, 


This place so charming, 


But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; 


With sailors' garments 


Being mossed by natur', that makes it svreeter 


Hung out to dry ; 


Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 


And each abode is 


'Tis there's the lake that is stored with 


Snug and commodious. 


perches. 


With pigs melodious 


And comely eels in the verdant mnd ; 


In their straw-built sty. 


Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches, 


'Tis there the turf is, 


All standing in order for to guard the flood. 


And lots of Murphies, 




Dead sprats and herrings, 


'Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch 


And oyster-sheUs ; 


in. 


Nor any lack, ! 


TVith the maids a-stitching upon the stair ; 


Of good tobacco, 


The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey, 


Though what is smuggled 


Would make you frisky if you were there. 


By far excels. 


'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 




A washing praties forenent the door. 


There are ships from Cadiz, 


With Eoger Cleary, and Father Healy, 


And from Barbadoes — 


All blood relations to my Lord Donough- 


But the leading trade is 


more. 


In whiskey-punch ; 


There's statues gracing this noble place in, 


And you may go in 


All heathen goddesses so fair — 


Where one Molly Bowen 


Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Mcodemus, 


Keeps a nate hotel 


All standing naked in the open air. 


For a quiet lunch. 


So now to finish this brave narration. 


But land or deck on. 


Which my poor geni' could not entwine ; 


You may safely reckon, 


But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar, 


Whatsoever country 


'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. 


You come hither from. 


EiCHAED Alfred Millikin. 


On an invitation 




To a jollification 


• 


With a parish priest 




That's caUed "Father Tom." 


THE TOWN OF PASSAGE. 






Ofships there's one fixt 


The town of Passage 


For lodging convicts — 


Is both large and spacious, 


A floating "stone jug" 


And situated 


Of amazing bulk ; 


Upon the say ; 


The hake and salmon. 


'Tis nate and dacenl, 


Playing at backgammon. 


And quite adjacent 


Swim for divarsion 


To come from Cork 


All round this hulk. 


On a summer's day. 


There "Saxon" jailers 


There you may slip in. 


Keep brave repailers 


To take a dipping, 


Who soon with sailors 


Forenent the shipping 


Must anchor weigh 


•That at anchor ride ; 


From th' em'rald island, 


Or in a wherry 


Ne'er to see diy land 


Cross o'er the ferry, 


Until they spy land 


To *' Carrigaloe, 


In sweet Bot'ny Bay. 


On the other side." 


Fathee: Peout. (Francis Mahony.) 



438 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



MOLONY'S LAMENT. 

Tim, did you hear of thim Saxons, 
And read what the peepers repoort ? 

They 're goan to recal the Liftinant, 

And shut up the Castle and Coort ! 
Our desolate counthry of Oireland 

They 're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy ; 
And now, having murdthered our counthry, 

They 're goin to kill the Viceroy, 
Dear boy! — 

'T was he was our proide and our joy. 

And will we no longer behould him, 
Surrounding his carriage in throngs, 

As he weaves his cocked hat from the win- 
dies, 
And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs ? 

1 liked for to see the young haroes, 

All shoining with sthripes and with stars, 
A horsing about in the Phaynix, 

And winking the girls in the cyars — 

Like Mars, 
A smokiu' their poipes and cigyars. 

Dear Mitchell, exoiled to Bermudies, 

Your beautiful oilids you '11 ope ! — 
And there '11 be an abondance of croyin 

From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope — 
When they read of this news in the pee- 
pers, 

Acrass the Atlantical wave. 
That the last of the Oirish Liftinints 

Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. 
God save 

The Queen — she should betther behave ; 



And what 's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, 

And who '11 ait the puffs and the tarts, 
Whin the Coort of imparial splindor 

From Doblin's sad city departs ? 
And who '11 have the fiddlers and pipers 

When the deuce of a Coort there remains ; 
And where '11 be the bucks and the ladies, 

To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains ? 
In sthrains 

It 's thus that ould Erin complains ! 



There 's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy, 

' Twas she in the Coort didn't fail, 
And she wanted a plinty of popplin 

For her dthress, and her flounce, and her 
tail; 
She bought it of Misthress O'Grady — 

Eight shillings a yard tabinet — 
But now that the Coort is concluded 

The divvle a yard will she get : 
I bet, 

Bedad, that she wears the old set. 



There 's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, 

They 'd daylings at Madam O'Eiggs' ; 
Each year, at the dthrawing-room sayson. 

They mounted the neatest of wigs. 
When Spring, with its buds, and its dasies, 

Comes out in her beauty and bloom, 
Thim tu '11 never think of new jasies. 

Because there is no dthrawing-room, 
For whom 

They 'd choose the expense to ashiime. 



There 's Alderman Toad and his lady, 

' Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort, 
And the poine-apples, tui'bots, and lobsters, 

To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort. 
But now that the quality's goin, 

I warnt that the aiting will stop, 
And you '11 get at the Alderman's teeble 

The devil a bite or a dthrop, 
Or chop, 

And the butcher may shut up his shop. 



Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin ; 

And his Lordship, the dear, honest man ; 
And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy; 

And Corry, the bould Connellan ; 
And little Lord Hyde and the childthren ; 

And the Chewter and Governess tu ; 
And the servants are packing their boxes — 

0, murther, but' what shall I due 
Without you ? 

O Meery, with ois of the blue ! 

"William Makepeace Thaoekrat. 



MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. 



439 



MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE 
BALL 

GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOE BY THE 
PENINSTJLAB AND OEIENTAL COMPANY. 

WILL ye choose to hear the news ? 
Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er : 

1 '11 tell yon all about the Ball 

To the Naypaulase Ambassador. 
Begor ! this fete all balls does bate 

At which I worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 

Of th' Oriental Company. 

These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
"We'll show the blacks," says they, "Al- 
mack's, 

And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these l!Tepanls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up, 
And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls. 

With roses and with lilies up. 
And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, 

So sweetly in the middle there. 
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, 

And violins did fiddle there. 
And when the Coort was tired of spoort, 

I 'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
A nate buffet before them set. 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was ! 

At ten, before the ball-room door 

His moighty Excellency was ; 
He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd — 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 
His dusky shuit, sublime and mute. 

Into the door- way followed him ; 
And the noise of the blackguard boys, 

As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 

The noble Chair stud at the stair. 

And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he 
Did thus evince to that Black Prince 

The welcome of his Company. 
O fair the girls, and rich the curls. 

And bright the oys you saw there, was ; 
And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther was ! 



This Gineral great then tuck his sate. 

With all the other ginerals, 
(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, 

All bleezed with precious minerals ;) 
And as he there, with princely air, 

Recloinin on his cushion was. 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin and the pushin was. 

O Pat, such girls, such Jukes and Earls, 

Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
Just think of Tim, and fancy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentility ! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty- 



Ministher and his lady there ; 
And I reckonized, with much surprise. 
Our messmate, Bob 0' Grady, there ; 

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked 
like Juno, 

And Baroness Rehausen there, 
And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar 

Well in her robes of gauze, in there. 
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 

When only Mr. Pips he was), 
And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool. 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Eingall and his ladies all, 

And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife — 

I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
There was Lord Belfast, that by me past. 

And seemed to ask how should I go there ? 
And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 

And the Marchioness of Shgo there. 

Yes, Jukes and Earls, and diamonds and 
pearls, 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; 
And some beside (the rogues!) I spied 

Behind the windies, coorting there. 
O, there 's one I know, bedad, would show 

As beautiful as any there ; 
And I 'd like to hear the pipers blow, 

And shake a fut with Fanny there! 

"William Makepeace Thackeeat. 



440 



POEMS OF COMEDY, 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE. 

I HEAED a sick man's dying sigh, 

And an infant's idle laughter : 
The Old Year went with mourning by — 

The New came dancing after ! 
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear — 

Let Kevelry hold her ladle ; 
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier — 

Eling roses on the cradle ; 
Mutes to wait on the funeral state, 

Pages to pour the wine : 
A requiem for Twenty-eight, 

And a health to Twenty-nine ! 

Alas fbr human happiness ! 

Alas for human sorrow ! 
Our yesterday is nothingness — 

What else wiU be our mon-ow ? 
Still Beauty must be stealing hearts, 

And Knavery steahng purses ; 
Still cooks must live by making tarts. 

And wits by making verses ; 
While sages prate, and courts debate, 

The same stars set and shine ; 
And the world, as it rolled through Twen- 
ty-eight, 

Must roU through Twenty-nine. 

Some king wiU come, in heaven's good 
time. 

To the tomb his father came to ; 
Some thief will wade through blood and 
crime 

To a crown he has no claim to ; 
Some suffering land wiU rend in twain 

The manacles that bound her, 
And gather the links of the broken chain 

To fasten them proudly round her ; 
The grand and great will love and hate. 

And combat and combine ; 
And much where we were in Twenty- 
eight, 

We shall be in Twenty -nine. 

O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent, 
And Kenyon to sink tJie Nation ; 

And Shiel will abuse the Parliament. 
And Peel the Association ; 



And thought of bayonets and swords 

Will make ex-ChanceUors merry ; . 
And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords 

And throats in the County of Kerry ; 
And writers of weight will speculate 

On the Cabinet's design ; 
And just what it did in Twenty-eight 

It will do in Twenty-nine. 

And the goddess of Love will keep her 
smiles, 

And the god of Cups his orgies ; 
And there'll be riots in St. Giles, 

And weddings in St. George's ; 
And mendicants will sup like kings, 

And lords will swear like lacqueys ; 
And black eyes oft wiU lead to rings. 

And rings will lead to black eyes ; 
And pretty Kate will scold her mate, 

In a dialect all divine ; 
Alas ! they married in Twenty-eighi, 

They will part in Twenty-nine. 

My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs. 

And talk of his oils and blubbers ; 
My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer 
hymns, 

And rather longer rubbers ; 
My cousin in Parliament will prove 

How utterly ruined trade is ; 
My brother, at Eaton, will fall in love 

With half a hundred ladies ; 
My patron will sate his pride from plate. 

And his thirst from Bordeaux wine — 
His nose was red in Twenty-eight, 

'T will be redder in Twenty-nine. 

And ! I shall find how, day by day. 

All thoughts and things look older — 
How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay, 

And the heart of Friendship colder ; 
But stiU I shall be what I have been, 

Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 
And seldom troubled with the spleen. 

And fond of talking treason ; 
I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate, 

And throw and write my line ; 
And the woman I worshiped in Twenty- 
eight 

I shall worship in Twenty-nine. 

WiNTnKOP Mackwoeth Peaed. 



WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 441 




With a palpitating heart 


THE EAIL. 


My friend essayed to rise ; 




There were bruises on his limbs 


I MET him in the cars, 


And stars before his eyes. 


Where resignedly he sat ; 


And his face was of the hue 


His hair was full of dust, 


Of the dolphin when it dies. 


And so was his cravat ; 


* * * * 


He was furthermore embellished 


I was very well content 


By a ticket in his hat. 


In escaping with my life ; 


J ^^ 1/ 


But my mutilated friend 


The conductor touched his arm, 


Commenced a legal strife-- 


And awoke him from a nap : 


Being thereunto incited 


Jr 1 

When he gave the feeding flies 


By his lawyer and his wife. 


An admonitory slap, 


And he writes me the result, 


And his ticket to the man 


In his quiet way as follows : 


In the yellow-lettered cap. 


That his case came np before 




A bench of legal scholars, 


So, launching into talk, 


Who awarded him his claim. 


We rattled on our way. 


Of $15,00 ! 


With allusions to the crops 


George H. CLAKi. 


That along the meadows lay- 




Whereupon his eyes were lit 




With a speculative ray. 






WHAT ME. ROBINSON THINKS. 


The heads of many men 


Gfvenee B. is a sensible man ; 


Were bobbing as in sleep, 


He stays to his home an' looks arter his 


And many babies lifted 


folks ; 


Their voices up to weep ; 


He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 


While the coal-dust darkly fell 
On bonnets in a heap. 


An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 




Robinson he 


All the while the swaying cars 


Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 


Kept rumbling o'er the rail. 




And the frequent whistle sent 


My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du ? 


Shrieks of anguish to the gale, 


We can't never choose him, o' course- 


And the cinders pattered down 


thet'sflat; 


On the grimy floor like hail. 


Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) 




An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; 


When suddenly ajar, 


Fer John P. 


And a thrice-repeated bump. 


Robinson he 


Made the people in alarm 


Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 


From their easy cushions jump ; 




For they deemed the sounds to be 


Gineral 0. is a dreffle smart man : 


The inevitable trump. 


He 's ben on all sides that give places or 




pelf; 


A splintering crash below. 


E ut consistency still wuz a part of his plan — 


A doom-foreboding twitch. 


He's ben true to one party — an' thet is 


As the tender gave a lurch 


himself; — 


Beyond the flying switch — 


So John P. 


And a mangled mass of men 


Robinson he 


Lay writhing in the ditch. 


Sez he shall vote fer Gineral 0. 



442 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Gineral 0. goes in fer the war ; 
He don't vally principle more'n an old 
cud; 
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' 
blood? 

So John P. 
Eobinson lie 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral 0. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our vil- 
lage, 
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut 
aint, 
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' 
pillage, 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of 
a saint ; 

But John P. 

Eobinson he 

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took, 
An' President Polk, you know, he is our 
country ; 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a 
book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us per con- 
try; 

An' John P. 

Robinson he 

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 



Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, 
faw, fum ; 
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ignorance, an' t' other half rum; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it aint no sech thing ; an', of course, so 
must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swal- 
ler-tail coats, 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a 
fife. 
To git some on 'em oflBce, and some on 'em 
votes; 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they did n't know every thin' down in 
Judee. 

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us 
The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, 
I vow — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise 
fellers, 
To drive the world's team wen it gits in a 
slough ; 

Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers out 

Gee! 

James Eussell Lowell. 



PART YIL 
POEMS OF TEAGEDY AND SOEEOW 



The mournful funeral slow proceeds behind, 
Arrayed in black, the heavy head declined ; 
Wide yawns the grave ; dull tolls the solemn bell ; 
Dark lie the dead ; and long the last farewell. 
There music sounds, and dancers shake the hall ; 
But here the silent tears incessant fall. 
Ere Mirth can well her comedy begin, 
The tragic demon oft comes thundering in. 
Confounds the actors, damps the merry show, 
And turns the loudest laugh to deepest woe. 

John Wilson. 



POEMS OF TRAGE 


DT AND SORROW. 


SIR PATEIOK SPENS. 


They hoysed their sails on Monenday mom 




Wi' a' the speed they may ; 


The king sits in Dunfermline town, 


They hae landed in Noroway 


Drinking the blnde-red wine : 


Upon a Wodensday. 


" where will I get a skeelj skipper 




To sail this new ship of mine ? " 


They hadna been a week, a week 




In Noroway, but twae, 


up and spake an eldern knight, 


When that the lords o' i^oroway 


Sat at the king's right knee : 


Began aloud to say : 


"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 




That ever sailed the sea." 


" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd 




And a' our queenis fee." 


Our king has written a braid letter. 


"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 


And sealed it with his hand, 


Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 


And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 




Was walking on the strand. 


" For I hae brought as much white monie 




As gane my men and me, — 


" To Noroway, to Noroway, 


And I hae brought a half-fou o' gude red 


To Noroway o'er the faem ; 


gowd 


The king's daughter of Noroway, 


Out owre the sea wi' me. 


'T is thou maun bring her hame ! 






"Make ready, make ready, my merry 


The first word that Sir Patrick read, 


men a' ! 


Sae loud, loud laughed he ; 


Oiir gude ship sails the morn." 


The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 


" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 


The tear blindit his e'e. 


I fear a deadly storm ! 


" wha is this has done this deed, 


" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 


And tauld the king o' me,. 


Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 


To send us out at this time of the year. 


And if we gang to sea, master, 


To sail upon the sea ? 


I fear we '11 come to harm." 


" Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it 


They hadna sailed a league, a league, 


sleet, 


A league, but barely three, 


Our ship must sail the faem ; 


When the lift grew dark, and the wind 


The king's daughter of Noroway, 


blew loud. 


'T is we must fetch her hame." 


And gurly grew the sea. 



446 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves came o'er the broken ship 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

" O where will I get a gude sailor 

To take my helm in hand, 
Till I get np to the tall topmast 

To see if I can spy land ? " 

" here am I, a sailor gude, 

To take the helm in hand, 
Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 

But I fear you '11 ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane. 
When a boult flew out of our goodly ship. 

And the salt sea it came in. 

" Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith. 

Another o' the twine. 
And wap them into our ship's side, 

And letna the sea come in." 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And they wapped them roun' that gude 
ship's side, 

— ^But still the sea came in. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 

But lang or a' the play was played, 
They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That floated on the faem ; 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair came hame. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, — 

The maidens tore their hair ; 
A' for the sake of their true loves, — 

For them they '11 see na mair. 

O lang lang may the ladyes sit, 
Wi' their fans into their hand. 

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the strand ! 



And lang lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 
For them they '11 see na mair. 

forty miles off Aberdeen 

'T is fifty fathoms deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

Anonymous. 



CHILD KORYOE. 

Child IsToetce is a clever young man — 

He wavers wi' the wind ; 
His horse was silver shod before, 

With the beaten gold behind. 

He called to his little man John, 
Saying, " You don't see what I see ; 

For O yonder I see the very first woman 
That ever loved me. 

"Here is a glove, a glove," he said, 

" Lined with the silver gray ; 
You may tell her to come to the merry 
green wood. 

To speak to child Nory. 



" Here is a ring, a ring," he says, 
" It 's all gold but the stane ; 

You may tell her to come to the 
green wood, 
And ask the leave o' nane." 



merry 



" So well do I love your errand, my master. 
But far better do I love my life ; 

O would ye have me go to Lord Barnard's 
castel. 
To betray away his wife ? " 

" do n't I give you meat," he says, 

"And do n't I pay you fee? 
How dare you stop my errand ? " he says ; 

"My orders you must obey." 

O when he came to Lord Barnard's castel. 

He tinkled at the ring ; 
Who was as ready as Lord Barnard himself 

To let this little boy in ? 



FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. 447 


" Here is a glove, a glove," lie says, 


"Owae be to thee. Lady Margaret," he 


"Lined with the silver gray; 


said, 


You are bidden to come to the merry green 


" And an ill death may you die ; 


wood, 


For if you had told me he was your son. 


To speak to Child Nory. 


He had ne'er been slain by me." 




Anontmoits. 


" Here is a ring, a ring," he says, 




"It's all gold but the stane: 


— • — 


You are bidden to come to the merry green 




wood, 


FATK AISTNIE OF LOCHROYAK 


And ask the leave o' nane." 






" WHA will shoe my fair foot, 


Lord Barnard he was standing by, 


And wha will glove my ban' ? 


And an angry man was he : 


And wha will lace my middle iimp 


" little did I think there was a lord in 


"Wr a new made London ban' ? 


this world 




My lady loved but me ! " 


" Or wha wiU kemb my yellow hair 


he dressed himself in the Holland smocks. 

And garments that was gay ; 
And he is away to the merry green wood, 


Wi' a new-made silver kemb ? 
Or wha '11 be father to my young bairn, 
Till love Gregor come hame ? " 


To speak to Child Nory. 


" Your father '11 shoe your fair foot, 


Child Noryce sits on yonder tree — 


Your mother glove your ban' ; 


He whistles and he sings : 


Your sister lace your middle jimp 


" wae be to me," says Child ISToryce, 


Wi' a new-made London ban' ; 


"Yonder my mother comes ! " 




J 


"Your brethren will kemb your yellow hair 


Child Noryce he came off the tree. 


Wi' a new made silver kemb ; 


His mother to take off the horse : 


And the King o' Heaven will father your 


" Och alace, alace!"says Child Noryce, 


bairn. 


" My mother was ne'er so gross." 


Till love Gregor come hame." 


Lord Barnard he had a little smaU sword. 


" gin I had a bonny ship. 


That hung low down by his knee ; 


And men to sail wi' me. 


He cut the head off Child Noryce, 


It 's I wad gang to my true love. 


And put the body on a tree. 


Sin he winna come to me ! " 


And when he came to his castel, 


Her father 's gien her a bonny ship, 


And to his lady's haU, 


And sent her to the stran' ; 


He threw the head into her lap, 


She 's taen her young son in her arms, 


Saying, " Lady, there is a ball ! " 


And turned her back to the Ian.' 


She turned up the bloody head. 


She hadna been o' the sea sailin' 


She kissed it frae cheek to chin : 


About a month or more. 


" Far better do I love this bloody head 


Till landed has she her bonny ship 


Than all my royal kin. 


Near her true-love's door. 


" When I was in my father's castel, 


The nicht was dark, and the wind blew cald, 


In my virginitie. 


And her love was fast asleep. 


There came a lord into the North, 


And the bairn that was in her twa arms 


Gat Child Noryce with me." 


Fu' sair began to greet. 



448 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Lang stood she at her true love's door, 

And lang tu-led at the pin ; 
At length up gat his fause mother, 

Says, " Wha 's that wad be in? " 

" it is Annie of Lochroyan, 

Your love, come o'er the sea. 
But and your young son in her arms ; 

So open the door to me." 

" Awa, awa, ye ill woman ! 

You 're nae come here for gude ; 
You 're but a witch, or a vile warlock. 

Or mermaid o' the flude." 

"I'm nae a witch or vile warlock, 

Or mermaiden," said she ; — 
" I 'm but your Annie of Lochroyan; — 

open the door to me ! " 

" O gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, 

As I trust not ye be, 
What taiken can ye gie that e'er 

1 kept your companie ? " 

" dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she says, 

" Whan we sat at the wine. 
How we changed the napkins frae our 
necks ? 

It 's nae sae lang sinsyne. 

" And* yours was gude, and gude enough. 

But nae sae gude as mine ; 
For yours was o' the cambrick clear, 

But mine o' the silk sae fine. 

"And dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she 
says, 

" As we twa sat at dine, 
How we changed the rings frae our fingers, 

And I can shew thee thine : 

" And yours was gude, and gude enough, 

Yet nae sae gude as mine ; 
For yours was o' the gude red gold. 

But mine o' the diamonds fine. 

" Sae open the door, now, love Gregor, 

And open it wi' speed ; 
Or your young son, that is in my arms, 

For cald will soon be dead." 



" Awa, awa, ye ill woman I 

Gae frae my door for shame ; 
For I hae gotten anither fair love — 

Sae ye may hie you hame." 

" hae ye gotten anither fair love, 

For a' the oaths ye sware ? 
Then fare ye weel, now, fause Gregor : 

For me ye's never see mair ! " 

O hooly, hooly gaed she back, 

As the day began to peep ; 
She set her foot on good ship board, 

And sair, sair did she weep. 

" Tak down, tak down the mast o' goud ; 

Set up the mast o' tree ; 
m sets it a forsaken lady 

To sail sae gallantlie. 

"Tak down, tak down the sails o' silk; 

Set up the sails o' skin ; 
HI sets the outside to be gay. 

Whan there 's sic grief within ! " 

Love Gregor started frae his sleep, 

And to his mother did say : 
" I dreamt a dream this night, mither. 

That maks my heart richt wae ; 

" I dreamt that Annie of Lochroyan, 

The flower o' a' her kin. 
Was standin' mournin' at my door ; 

But nane wad lat her in." 

" there was a woman stood at the door, 
Wi' a bairn intill her arms ; 
But I wadna let her within the bower, 
For fear she had done you harm." 

quickly, quickly raise he up, 

And fast ran to the strand ; 
And there he saw her, fair Annie, 

Was sailing frae the land. 

And "heigh, Annie! " and "how, Annie! 

0, Annie, winna ye bide ? " 
But ay the louder that he cried " Annie," 

The higher raired the tide. 

And "heigh, Annie! " and "how, Annie! 

O, Annie, speak to me ! " 
But ay the louder that he cried " Annie," 

The louder raired the sea. 



« 



THE DOWIE DENS OF YAKROW. 



449 



The wind grew loud, and the sea grew 
rough, 

And the ship was rent in twain ; 
And soon he saw her, fair Annie, 

Come floating o'er the main. 

He saw his young son in her arms, 

Baith tossed aboon the tide ; 
He wrang his hands, and fast he ran, 

And plunged in the sea sae wide. 

He catched her by the yellow hair, 

And di-ew her to the strand ; 
But cald and stiff was every limb, 

Before he reached the land. 

O first he kist her cherry cheek, 

And syne he kist her chin : 
And sair he kist her ruby lips. 

But there was nae breath within. 

O, he has mourned o'er fair Annie, 
TiU the sun was ganging down ; 

Syne wi' a sich his heart it brast, 
And his saul to Heaven has flown. 

Anonymous. 



THE DOWIE DENS OF YAEROW. 



Late at e'en, drinking the wine, 
And ere they paid the lawing. 

They set a combat them between, 
To fight it in the dawing. 

" stay at hame, my noble lord ! 

O stay at hame, my marrow ! 
My cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow." 

" O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 

O fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 
For I maun gae, though I ne'er return 

Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair. 
As oft she had done before, O ; 

She belted him with his noble brand, 
And he 's away to Yarrow. 
29 



As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 

I wot he gaed wi' sorrow, 
Till, down in a den, he spied nine armed 
men, 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

" O come ye here to part your land, 

The bonnie Forest thorough ? 
Or come ye here to wield your brand. 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow ? " — 

" I come not here to part my land. 
And neither to beg nor borrow ; 

I come to wield my noble brand. 
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 

" If I see all, ye 're nine to ane ; 

And that 's an unequal marrow : 
Yet wiU I fight, while lasts my brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." 

Four has he hurt, and five has slain. 
On the bloody braes of Yarrow, 

Till that stubborn knight came him behind, 
And ran his body thorough. 

" Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 

And tell your sister Sarah, 
To come and lift her leafu' lord ; 

He 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." — 

" Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream : 

I fear there will be sorrow ! 
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green, 

Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. 

" O gentle wind, that bloweth south. 
From where my love repaireth. 

Convey a kiss frorn his dear mouth, 
And teU me how he fareth ! 

" But in the glen strive armed men ; 

They 've wrought me dole and sorrow ; 
They 've slain — the comeliest knight they 've 
slain — 

He bleeding lies on Yarrow." 

m 

As she sped down yon high, high hill. 

She gaed wi' dole and sorrow, 
And in the den spied ten slain men, 

On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 



450 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



She kissed his cheeks, she kaimed his hair, 
She searched his wounds all thorough ; 

She kissed them, till her lips grew red, 
On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

"Now haud your tongue, my daughter 
dear! 

For a' this breeds but sorrow ; 
I '11 wed ye to a better lord, 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow." — 

" haud your tongue, my father dear ! 

Ye mind me but of sorrow ; 
A fairer rose did never bloom 

Than now lies cropped on Yarrow." 

Anonymotjs. 



THE BKAES OF YAEKOW. 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride. 

And think nae mair of the Braes of Yarrow." 



*' Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride. 
Where got ye that winsome marrow ? " 

" I got her where I daurna weel be seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

"Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie 
bride, 

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 
For let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow." 

"Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie 
bride? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? " 

" Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun 
she weep — 

Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow; 
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 



" For she has tint her lover, lover dear — 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

And I hae slain the comeliest swain 
That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

" Why runs thy stream, O, Yarrow, Yarrow, 
red? 
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sor- 
row? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow? 

"What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful 
flood? 
What 's yonder floats ? — 0, dule and sor- 
row! 
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew 
Upon the dulefu' Braes of Yarrow. 

"Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in 
tears, 

His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 

And lay him on the banks of Yarrow. 

" Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; 

And weep around, in waeful wise, 
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow ! 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield. 
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast. 
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, 
And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow. 

Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st, 
Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yar- 
row. 

Sweet smells the birk; green grows, green 
grows the grass ; 

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan ; 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock ; 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing ! 

"Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet 
flows Tweed ; 

As green its grass ; its gowan as yellow ; 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk ; 

The apple from its rocks as mellow ! 



RARE WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW. 



451 



"Fair was tliy love ! fair, fair indeed thy love ! 

In jflowery bands thou didst him fetter ; 
Though he was fair, and well-beloved again, 

Than I he never loved thee better. 

"Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie 
bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed 

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yar- 



"How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How can I lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 

That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow ? 

" Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, 
iSTor dew, thy tender blossoms cover ! 

For there was basely slain my love. 
My love, as he had not been a lover. 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of green. 
His purple vest — 'twas my ain sewing; 

Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned 
He was, in these, to meet his ruin. 

" The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white 
steed, 

Unmindful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the too fa' of the night. 

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow ! 

"Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day ; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my love, and left me mourning. 

"What can my barbarous, barbarous father do. 
But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 

My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo 
me? 

" My happy sisters may be, may be proud ; 

With cruel and ungentle scoffing 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow Braes, 

My lover nailed in his coffin. 

"My brother Douglas may upbraid. 
And strive, with threatening words, to 
move me ; 

My lover's blood is on thy spear — 
How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 



" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love 1 
With bridal-sheets my body cover ! 

Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 
Let in the expected husband-lover ! 

"But who the expected husband, husband is? 

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaugh- 
ter! 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? 

"Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down; 

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take off, take off these bridal weeds, 

And crown my careful head with willow. 

"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best be- 
loved, 

Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
Yet he all night within my arms — 

No youth lay ever there before thee ! 

"Pale, pale indeed, lovely, lovely youth! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
And lie all night within my arms, 

No youth shall ever lie there after! " 

" Eeturn, return, mournful, mournful 
bride ! 
Eeturn, and dry thy useless sorrow ! 
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ; 
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow." 
"William Hamilton. 



RAEE WILLY DEOWNED IN YAEEOW. 

" Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair. 
And Willy 's wond'rous bonny ; 

And Willy heght to marry me, 
Gin e'er he married ony. 

" Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, 
This night I '11 make it narrow ; 

For a' the livelang winter night 
I ly twined of my marrow. 

" O came you by yon water-side? 

Pou'd you the rose or lily ? 
Or came you by yon meadow green? 

Or saw you my sweet Willy ? " 



452 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SOREOW. 



She sought him east, she sought him west, 
She sought him braid and narrow ; 

Syne in the cleaving of a craig, 

She found him drowned in Yarrow. 



Anonymotis. 



SONG. 



Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream I 
When first on them I met my lover ; 

Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream ! 
When now thy waves his body cover. 

For ever now, Yarrow stream ! 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 

He promised me a milk-white steed, 

To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page, 

To 'squire me to his father's towers ; 
He promised me a wedding-ring — 

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; 
Kow he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met ; 

My passion I as freely told him ! 
Clasped in his arms, I httle thought 

That I should never more behold him ! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water- wraith ascend. 

And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. 

His mother from the window looked. 

With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walked 

The green-wood path to meet her brother. 
They sought him east, they sought him west, 

They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
They only saw the cloud of night, 

They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 

No longer from thy window look, 

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother I 

No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 
Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 



No longer seek him east or west, 

And search no more the forest thorough , 

For, wandering in the night so dark, 
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. 

The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
No other youth shall be my marrow ; 

I'll seek thy body in the stream. 

And then with thee I '11 sleep in Yarrow. 
John Logan. 



THE CRUEL SISTER. 

Theee were two sisters sat in a hour, 
Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
There came a knight to be their wooer ; 
By the tonny milldams of Binnorie, 

He courted the eldest with glove and ring, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing ; 
By the lonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He courted the eldest with broach and knife, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life ; 

By the tonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest she was vexed sair, 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
And sore envied her sister fair ; 

By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest said to the youngest ane, 

Binnorie, Binnorie — 
" Will ye go and see our father's ships come 
in?" 

By the "bonny milldams of Binnorie 

She's ta'en her by the lily hand, 

Binnorie, Binnorie — 
And led her down to the river strand ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The youngest stude upon a stane, 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
The eldest came and pushed her in ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 



THE CEUEL SISTER. 



453 



She took her by the middle sma', 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
And dashed her bonny back to the jaAv ; 
By the 'bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" sister, sister, reach your hand, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And ye shall be heir of half my land." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" O sister, I'll not reach my hand, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And I '11 be heir of all your land ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Shame fa' the hand that I should take, 

Binnorie., Binnorie : 
It's twined me and my world's make." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" O sister, reach me but your glove, 
Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And sweet William shall be your love." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove ! 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And sweet William shall better be my love, 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, 

Binnorie.^ Binnorie ; 
Garred me gang maiden evermair." 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
Until she cam to the miller's dam ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" O father, father, draw your dam ! 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
There's either a mermaid, or a milk-white 

swan." 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The miller hasted and drew his dam, 
Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And there he found a drowned woman ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 



You could not see her yellow hair, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
For gowd and pearls that were so rare ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

You could not see her middle sma', 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
Her gowden girdle was sae bra' ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

A famous harper passing by, 

Binnorie., Binnorie ; 
The sweet pale face he chanced to spy^ 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

And when he looked that lady on, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
He sighed and made a heavy moan ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He made a harp of her breast-bone, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The strings he framed of her yellow hair, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie — 
Whose notes made sad the listening ear ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He brought it to her father's hall, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And there was the court assembled all ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He laid his harp upon a stone, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And straight it began to play alone ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" yonder sits my father, the king, 

Binnorie., Binnorie ; 
And yonder sits my mother, the queen ; " 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

"And yonder stands my brother Hugh, 

Binnorie^ Binnorie ; 
And by him my William, sweet and true." 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

But the last tune that the harp played then, 

Binnorie., Binnorie ; 
Was — " Woe to my sister, false Helen ! " 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie, 

Anontmotjs. 



454 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


LORD RANDAL. 


EDWARD, EDWARD. 


" WHERE hae ye been, Lord Randal, my 


"QuHi: dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, 


son? 


Edward, Edward 


where hae ye been, my handsome young 


Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid. 


man ? " 


And quhy sae sad gang zee ? " 


"I bae been to the wild wood; mother. 


"01 hae killed my hauke sae guid. 


make my bed soon. 


Mither, mither : 


For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie 


I hae killed my hauke sae guid. 


down." 


And I had nae mair bot hee 0." 


" Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, 

my son ? 
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome 


" Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid. 


Edward, Edward; 
Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid — 


young mdn s 
"I dined wi' my true-love; mother, make 


My deir son, I teU thee 0." 


"01 hae killed my reid-roan steid. 


my bed soon. 
For I'm weary wi' hunting, andfain wald lie 
down." 


Mither, mither : 
I hae killed my reid-roan steid, 


That erst was sae fair and free 0." 


" What gat ye to your dinner. Lord Randal, 




my son ? 


"Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, 


What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome 


Edward, Edward: 


young man ? " 


Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair — 


" I gat eels boiled in broo ; mother, make my 


Sum other dule ze drie 0." 


bed soon. 


"01 hae killed my fader deir, 


For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie 


Mither, mither : 


down." 


I hae killed my fader deir — 




Alas ! and wae is mee ! " 


"What became of your bloodhounds. Lord 




Randal, my son ? 


" And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, 


What became of your bloodhounds, my hand- 


Edward, Edward? 


some young man ? " 


And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that? 


"0 they swelled and they died; mother. 


My deir son, now tell me 0." 


make my bed soon. 


" lie set my feit in zonder boat. 


For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie 


Mither, mither : 


down." 


lie set my feit in zonder boat. 




And He fare ovir the sea 0." 


"01 fear ye are poisoned. Lord Randal, my 




son! 


" And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and 


I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young 


zour ha'. 


man!" 


Edward, Edward? 


" yes ! I am poisoned ; mother, make my 


And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and 


bed soon, 


zour ha', 


For I 'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie 


That were sae fair to see ? " 


down." 


" He let thame stand til they doun fa', 


Anonymous. 


Mither, mither: 




He let thame stand til they doun fa'. 

For here nevir mair maun I bee 0." 





THE TWA BROTHERS. 



455 



"And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and 
zour wife, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and 
zour wife, 

Quhan ze gang ovir the sea ? " 
" The warldis room — late them beg throw life, 

Mither, mither: 
The warldis room — ^late them beg throw life. 
For thame nevir mair wul I see 0." 
> 
"And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither 
deir, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither 
deir? 

Mj deir son, now tell me 0." 
" The curse of hell frae me saU ze beir^ 

Mither, mither : 
The curse of hell frae me saU ze beir — 
Sic counseils ze gave to me 0." 

Anonymous. 



THE TWA BEOTHEES. 

Theee were twa brothers at the scule. 

And when they got awa', — 
" It 's will ye play at the stane-chucking, 

Or will ye play at the ba' ? 
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 

And there we '11 warsel a fa' ? " 

"I winna play at the stane-chucking, 

Nor will I play at the ba' ; 
But I '11 gae up to yon bonnie green hill. 

And there we 'U warsel a fa' ? " 

They warsled up, they warsled down, 

Till John fell to the ground ; 
A dirk fell out of William's pouch, 

And gave John a deadly wound. 

" O lift me upon your back — 

Tak me to yon well fair; 
And wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, 

And they '11 ne'er bleed nae mair." 

He 's lifted his brother upon his back, 

Ta'en him to yon well fair ; 
He 's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, 

But they bleed ay mair and mair. 



" Tak ye aff ray Holland sark. 

And rive it gair by gair. 
And row it in my bluidy wounds, 

And they '11 ne'er bleed nae mair." 

He 's taken aff his Holland sark, 

And torn it gair by gair ; 
He 's rowit it in his bluidy wounds, 

But they bleed ay mair and mair. 

"Tak now aff my green cleiding, 

And row me saftly in ; 
And tak me up to yon kirk style, 

Whare the grass grows fair and green." 

He 's taken aff the green cleiding, 

And rowed him saftly in ; 
He 's laid him down by yon kirk style, 

Whare the grass grows fair and green. 

"What will ye say to your father dear, 

When ye gae hame at e'en ? " 
" I '11 say ye 're lying at yon kirk style, 
Whare the grass grows fair and green." 

" no, no, my brother dear, 

O you must not say so ; 
But say that I 'm gane to a foreign land. 

Where nae man does me know." 

When he sat in his father's chair, 

He grew baith pale and wan : 
" what blude 's that upon your brow ? 

O dear son, tell to me." 
" It is the blude o' my gude gray steed — 

He wadna ride wi' me." 

" thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red, 

Nor e'er sae dear to me. 
what blude 's this upon your cheek ? 

O dear son, tell to me." 
" It is the blude of my greyhound — 

He wadna hunt for me." 

" O thy hound's blude was ne'er sae red, 

Nor e'er sae dear to me. 
what blude 's this upon your hand ? 

O dear son, tell to me." 
" It is the blude of my gay goss hawk — 

He wadna flee for me." 



456 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


*' thy hawk's blude was ne'er sae red, 




Nor e'er sae dear to me. 


BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. 


what blude 's this upon your dirk ? 




Dear Willie, tell to me." 


Hie upon Hielands, 


" It is the blude of my ae brother, 


And low upon Tay, 


dule and wae is me ! " 


Bonnie George Campbell 


"0 what will ye say to your father? 
Dear Willie, tell to me." 


Rade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled 


" I '11 saddle my steed, and awa' I '11 ride 


And gallant rade he ; 


J 7 

To dwell in some fai- countrie." 


Hame cam his gude horse, 




But never cam he ! 


" when will ye come hame again? 




Dear Willie, tell to me." 


Out cam his auld mither, 


" When sun and mune leap on yon hill — 


Greeting fu' sair ; 


And that will never be." 


And out cam his bonnie bride. 


She turned hersel' right round about. 


Rivin' her hair. 


And her heart burst into three : 


Saddled and bridled 


" My ae best son is deid and gane. 


And booted rade he ; 


And my tother ane I '11 ne'er see." 


Toom hame came the saddle. 


A2TONTMOU8. 


But never cam he I 


— ♦— 


" My meadow lies green, 




And my corn is unshorn ; 


T H H: TWA CORBIES. 


My barn is to big, 




And my baby 's unborn." 


A8 I gaed doun by yon house-en' 


Saddled and bridled 


Twa corbies there were sittan their lane : 


And booted rade he ; 


The tane unto the tother sae, 


Toom hame cam the saddle, 


" where shall we gae dine to-day ? " 


But never cam he ! 




Anonymous. 


" down beside yon new-faun birk 
There hes a new-slain knicht ; 






Nae livin kens that he lies there. 




But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair. 


T,A¥ENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW- 


" His horse is to the huntin gane. 


My love he built me a bonny bower, 


His hounds to bring the wild deer hame ; 


And clad it a' wi' lilye flour ; 


His lady 's taen another mate ; 


A brawer bower ye ne'er did see 


Sae we may make our dinner swate. 


Than my true love he built for me. 


" we '11 sit on his bonnie briest-bane, 




And we 'U pyke out his bonnie grey een ; 


There came a man, by middle day ; 


Wi ae lock o' his gowden hair 


He spied his sport, and went away ; 


We 'U theek our nest when it blaws bare. 


And brought the king that very night, 




Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 


" Mony a ane for him maks mane. 




But nane sail ken where he is gane ; 


He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 


Ower his banes, when they are bare, 


He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear ; 


The wind sail blaw for evermair ! " 


My servants all for life did flee. 


Anontmotts. 


And left me in extremitie. 



SONG. 457 


I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 


that I were where Helen lies ! 


I watched the corpse, myself alane ; 


Night and day on me she cries ; 


I watched his body, night and day ; 


Out of my bed she bids me rise — 


No living creature came that way. 


Says, " Haste and come to me ! " 


I tuk his body on my back. 


Helen fair ! Helen chaste ! 


And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 


If I were with thee I were blest. 


I digged a grave, and laid him in, 


Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 


And happed him with the sod sae green. 


On fair KirconneU Lee. 


But think na ye my heart was sair, 


I wish my grave were growing green, 


"When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ? 


A winding-sheet drawn ower my een. 


think na ye my heart was wae. 


And I in Helen's arms lying. 


When I turned about, away to gae ? 


On fair KirconneU Lee. 


Nae living man I 'U love again. 


I wish I were where Helen lies ! 


Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 


Night and day on me she cries ; 


Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair 


And I am weary of the skies. 


I ']! chain my heart for evermair. 


For her sake that died for me. 


AHONTMOTTS. 


Akonymotts. 


1 * 

FAIR HELEN. 


SONG. 


I WISH I were where Helen lies ; 


" Maey, go and call the cattle home. 


Night and day on me she cries. 


And call the cattle home. 


that I were where Helen lies. 


And call the cattle home. 


On fair KirconneU Lee ! 


Across the sands o' Dee ! " 




The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam. 


Curst be the heart that thought the thought. 


And all alone went she. 


And curst the hand that fired the shot. 




When in my arms burd Helen di-opt. 


The creeping tide came up along the sand, 


And died to succour me ! 


And o'er and o'er the sand. 




And round and round the sand. 


Oh think na ye my heart was sair. 


As far as eye could see ; 


When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ? 


The blinding mist came down and hid the land : 


There did she swoon wi' meikle care, 


And never home came she. 


On fair KirconneU Lee. 






" is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 


As I went down the water side, 


A tress o' golden hair, 


None but my foe to be my guide — 


0' drowned maiden's hair — 


None but my foe to be my guide, 


Above the nest at sea ? 


On fair K'lrconnell Lee — 


Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 




Among the stakes on Dee." 


I lighted down my sword to draw ; 




I hacked him in pieces sma' — 


They rowed her in across the roUing foam — 


I hacked him in pieces sma', 


The cruel, crawling foam. 


For her sake that died for me. 


The cruel, hungry foam — 




To her grave beside the sea ; 


Helen fair, beyond compare. 


But sti]l the boatmen hear her call the cattle 


I '11 make a garland of thy hair, 


home 


Shall bind my heart for evermair. 


Across the sands o' Dee. 


Until the day I die ! 


Chakles Kingslet. 



458 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

AN EPISODE. 

And the first gray of morning filled the east, 
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream ; 
But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
Was hushed, and still the men were plunged 

in sleep. 
Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night along 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent. 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword. 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his 

tent, 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog. 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 
Through the black Tartar tents he passed, 

which stood 
Clustering like bee-hives, on the low flat 

strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pa- 
mere : 
Through the black tents he passed, o'er that 

low strand, 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink, the spot where flrst 

a boat. 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the 

land. 
The men of former times had crowned the 

top 
With a clay fort. But that was fallen ; and 

now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
A dome of laths ; and o'er it felts were 

spread. 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and 

stood 
Upon the thick-piled carpets in the tent, 
And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
Of rugs and felts ; and near him lay his arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 
Was dulled ; for he slept light, an old man's 

sleep ; 
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : 
"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear 

dawn. 
Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? " 



But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : 
" Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ; it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep ; but I sleep not. All night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful ; and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son. 
In Samarcand, before the army marched ; 
And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
Thou knowest if, since from Ader-baijan first 
I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This, too, thou know'st, that while I still 

bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the 

world, 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone. 
Rustum, my father; who, I hoped, should 

greet. 
Should one day greet upon some well-fought 

field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I 

ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
To meet me, man to man. If I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
Dim is the rumor of a common fight. 
Where host meets host, and many names are 

sunk ; 
But of a single combat Fame speaks clear." 

He spoke : and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and 

said: 
" O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
And share the battle's common chance with 

us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first. 
In single fight incurring single risk. 
To find a father thou hast never seen ? 
That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
Unmurmuring — in our tents, while it is war ; 
And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But, if this one desire indeed rules all. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



459 



To seek out Rustum — seek liim not through 

fight; 
Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms — 
O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
But far hence seek him ; for he is not here. 
For now it is not as when I was young, 
When Rustum was in front of every fray ; 
But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 
In Siestan, with Zal, his father old ; 
Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
Feels the abhorred approaches of old age ; 
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
There go; — Thou wilt not? yet my heart 

forebodes 
Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and well, though 

lost 
To us — fain therefore send thee hence, in 

peace 
To seek thy father, not seek single fights 
In vain. But who can keep the lion's cub 
From ravening? and who govern Rustum's 

son? 
Go ! I will grant thee what thy heart desires." 
So said he, and dropped Sohrab's hand, and 

left 
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay ; 
And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet. 
And threw a white cloak round him ; and he 

took 
In his right hand a ruler's stafi", no sword ; 
And on his head he placed his sheep-skin 

cap — 
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
And raised the curtain of his tent, and called 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
The sun, by this, had risen, and cleared the 

fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering 



And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
Into the open plain : so Haman bade — 
Haman, who, next to Peran-Wisa, ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
From their black tents, long files of horse, 

they streamed : 
As when, some grey November morn, the 

files. 
In marching order spread, of long-necked 



Stream over Oasbin, and the southern slopes 

Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. 

Or some frore Caspian reed-bed — southward 

bound 
For the warm Persian sea-board: so they 

streamed — 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard. 
First, with black sheep-skin caps, and with 

long spears ; 
Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara 

come, 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 
Next the more temperate Toorkmuns of the 

south, 
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 
And those from Attruck and the Caspian 

sands — 
Light men, and on light steeds, who only 

drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who 

came 
From far, and a more doubtful service 

owned — 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes — ^men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder 

hordes 
Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks and unkemped Kuzzaks, tribes who 

stray 
Nearest the Pole ; and wandering Kirghizes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere. 
These all filed out from camp into the plain. 
And on the other side the Persians formed : 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they 

seemed, 
The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot. 
Marshalled battalions bright in burnished 

steel. 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front. 
And with his staff kept back the foremost 

ranks. 
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 
He took his spear, and to the front he came 
And checked his ranks, and fixed them where 

they stood. 



460 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 



And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and 

said : — 
"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, 

hear! 
Let there he truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion, Sohrah, man to man." 

As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran, 
Of pride and hope for Sohrah, whom they 

loved. 
But as a troop of pedlars, from Oabool, 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk 

snow. 
Winding so high, that, as they mount, they 

pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the 

snow. 
Choked by the air; and scarce can they 

themselves 
Slake their parched throats with sugared 

mulberries — 
In single file they move, and stop their breath, 
For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging 

snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with 

fear. 
And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
To counsel. Gudurz and Zoarrah came ; 
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the King ; 
These came and counselled ; and then Gudurz 

said : — 
"Ferood, shame bids us take their chal- 
lenge up, 
Yet champion have we none to match this 

youth ; 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits, 
And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart : 
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's 

name. 
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
Stand forth the while, and take their chal- 
lenge up." 



So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and 

said : — 
" Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. 
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." 
He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to his 

tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
And crossed the camp which lay behind, and 

reached. 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay. 
Just pitched. The high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustum's; and his men lay camped 

around. 
And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent, and found 
Rustum. His morning meal was done ; but 

still 
The table stood beside him, charged with 

food — 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. 
And dark green melons. And there Rustum 

sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist. 
And played with it ; but Gudurz came and 

stood 
Before him; and he looked and saw him 

stand ; 
And with a cry sprang up, and di'opped the 

bird. 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and 

said : — 
"Welcome ! these eyes could see no better 

sight. 
What news ? But sit down first, and eat and 

drink." 
But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and 

said : — 
" Not now. A time will come to eat and 

drink. 
But not to-day : to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion — and thou know'st 

his name — 
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
Rustum, like thy might is this young 

man's ! 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



461 



Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Eustum, or we lose." 
He spoke. But Eustum answered with a 

smile : — 
" Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
Am older. If the young are weak, the King 
Errs strangely ; for the King^ for Kai Khos- 

roo, 
Himself is young, and honors younger men, 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Eustum he loves no more, but loves the 

young— 
The young may rise at Sohrah's vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's 

fame? 
For would that I myself had such a son, 
And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, 
And clip his borders short, and drive his 

herds ; 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go, and hang my armor up, 
And with my great name fence that weak old 

man. 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame. 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless 

kings. 
And with these slaughterous hands draw 

sword no more." 
He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made 

reply :— 
"What then, O Eustum, will men say to 

this, 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and 

seeks 
Thee most of all ; and thou, whom most he 

seeks, 
Hidest thy face ? Take heed, lest men should 

say, 
Lilce some old miser Eustum hoards Msfame^ 
And sJiuns to peril it with younger men.'''' 
And, greatly moved, then Eustum made 

reply:— 
" Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such 

words ? 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed. 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 



Are not they mortal ? Am not I myself? 
But who for men of nought would do great 

deeds ? 
Come, thou shalt see how Eustum hoards his 

fame. 
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms ; 
Let not men say of Eustum, he was matched 
In single fight with any mortal man." 

He spoke, and frowned ; and Gudurz turned, 

and ran 
Back quickly through the camp in fear and 

joy- 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Eustum came. 
But Eustum strode to his tent door, and 

called 
His followers in, and bade them bring his 

arms, 
And clad himself in steel. The arms he 

chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device ; 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold ; 
And from the fluted spine, atop, a plume 
Of horse-hair waved, a scarlet horse-hair 

plume. 
So armed, he issued forth; and Euksh, his 

horse. 
Followed him, like a faithful hound, at 

heel — 
Euksh, whose renown was noised through 

aU the earth — 
The horse, whom Eustum on a foray once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find, 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 
And reared him; a bright bay, with lofty 

crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green 
Crusted with gold ; and on the ground were 

worked 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters 

know. 
So followed, Eustum left his tents, and crossed 
The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with 

shouts 
Hailed: but the Tartars knew not who he 

was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
Of his pale wife, who waits and weeps on 

shore. 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf — 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 



462 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Having made up his tale of precious pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanced: 
And Sohrah armed in Haman's tent, and 

came. 
And as a-field the reapers cut a swathe 
Down through the middle of a rich man's 

corn. 
And on each side are squares of standing 

corn. 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare : 
So on each side were squares of men, with 

spears 
Bristling; and in the midst, the open sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 
His eyes towards the Tartar tents, and saw 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he 

came. 
As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor 

drudge 
Who with numb-blackened fingers makes her 

fire — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 
When the frost flowers the whitened window 

panes — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the 

thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be: so Rustum 

eyed 
The unknown adventurous youth, who from 

afar 
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
All the most valiant chiefs. Long he perused 
His spirited air, and wondered who he was. 
For very young he seemed, tenderly reared; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 

straight, 
Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. 
And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming ; and he stood. 
And beckoned to him with his hand, and 

said: 
" 0, thou young man, the air of Heaven is 

soft, 
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is 

cold. 



Heaven's air is better than the cold dead 

grave. 
Behold me : I am vast, and clad in iron. 
And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a 

foe; 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? 
Be governed : quit the Tartar host, and come 
To L'an, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die. 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." 
So he spake, mildly. Sohrab heard his 

voice, 
The mighty voice of Rustum ; and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand — 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Has builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers ; and he saw that head. 
Streaked with its first gray hairs. Hope filled 

his soul ; 
And he ran forward and embraced his knees, 
And clasped his hand within his own and 

said : — 
" 0, by thy father's head ! by thine own 

soul! 
Art thou not Rustum ? Speak ! art thou not 

he?" 
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling 

youth. 
And turned away, and spoke to his own soul ; 
"Ah me, I muse what this young fox may 

mean. 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks. 
And hide it not, but say — Eustum is here — 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes. 
But he will find some pretext not to fight, 
And praise my fame, and profier courteous 

gifts— 
A belt or sword perhaps — and go his way. 
And on a feast day, in Afrasiab's hall, 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry — 
'I challenged once, when the two armies 

camped 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
Shrank ; only Rustum dared. Then he and I 
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms 

away.' 
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



463 



Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through 
me." 
And then he turned, and sternly spake 

aloud : 
" Else ! Wherefore dost thou vainly ques- 
tion thus 

Of Kustum? I am here, whom thou hast 
called 

By challenge forth. Make good thy vaunt, 
or yield. 

Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 

Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee. 

For well I know, that did great Rustum 
stand 

Before thy face this day, and were revealed, 



But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul — 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and 

yield ; 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, tiU 

winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, 
Oxus in summer, wash them all away." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab answered, on his 

feet: 
" Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright 

me so. 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well: did Rustum 

stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting 

then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
Begin! Thou art more vast, more dread, 

than I ; 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am 

young— 
But yet success sways with the breath of 

Heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest 

sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea. 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of Fate, 
"Which hangs uncertain to which side to 

fall; 
And whether it will heave us up to land. 
Or whether it will roll us out to sea — 
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death — 



We know not, and no search will make us 

know; 
Only the event will teach us in its hour." 
He spake ; and Rustum answered not, but 

hurled 
His spear. Down from the shoulder, down 

it came — 
As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk. 
That long has towered in the airy clouds. 
Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come. 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear 
Hissed, and went quivering down into the 

sand. 
Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab 

threw 
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. 

Sharp rang. 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the 

spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but 

he 
Could wield — an unlapped trunk it was, and 

huge, 
StiU rough ; like those which men, in tree- 
less plains. 
To build them boats, fish from the flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter- 
time 
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs — 

so huge 
The club w^hich Rustum lifted now, and 

struck 
One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside, 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club 

came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rus- 
tum's hand. 
And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched 

the sand. 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his 

sword. 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he 

lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with 

sand ; 
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his 

sword ; 



464 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



But courteously drew back, and spoke, and 

said: 
" Thou strik 'st too hard ; that club of thine 

will float 
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I. 
'No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my 

soul. 
Thou sayest thou art not Eustum ; be it so. 
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my 

soul? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too ; 
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. 
And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
But never was my heart thus touched before. 
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of 

the heart ? 
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry 

spears. 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 
And pledge each other in red wine, like 

friends ; 
And thou shalt talk to me of Eustum's deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian host 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no 

pang; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
May'st fight : fight them, when they confront 

thy spear. 
But O, let there be peace 'twixt thee and 

me!" 
He ceased. But while he spake, Eustum 

had risen. 
And stood erect, trembling with rage. His 

club 
He left to lie, but had regained his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right 

hand 
Blazed bright and baleful — ^like that autumn 

star, 
The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled 
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering 

arms. 
His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and 

twice his voice 
Was choked with rage. At last these words 

broke way : — 
" Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy 

hands ! 
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! 



Fight! let me hear thy hateful voice no 

more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont 

to dance ; 
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and 

wine! 
Eemember all thy valor ; try thy feints 
And cunning ; ail the pity I had is gone ; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both the 

hosts. 
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's 

wiles." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab kindled at his 

taunts. 
And he too drew his sword. At once they 

rushed 
Together ; as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds, 
One from the east, one from the west. Their 

shields 
Dashed with a clang together ; and a din 
Eose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees ; such blows 
Eustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. 
And you would say that sun and stars took 

part 
In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and darkened the 

sun 
Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the 

plain, 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 
In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they 

alone ; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure. 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot 

eyes 
And laboring breath. First Eustum struck 

the shield 
Which Sohrab held stifi" out. The steel-spiked 

spear 
Eent the tough plates, but failed to reach the 

skin; 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



465 



And Rustum plucked it back with angry 

groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum 's 

helm, 
Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the 

crest 
He shore away; and that proud horsehair 

plume, 
Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust ; 
And Rustum bowed his head. But then the 

gloom 
Grew blacker ; thunder rumbled in the air, 
And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, 

the horse. 
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry. 
No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 
Of some pained desert Hon, who all day 
Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side. 
And comes at night to die upon the sand. 
The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for 

fear; 
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. 
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not — ^but 

rushed on. 
And struck again; and again Rustum bowed 
His head. But this time all the blade, like 

glass, 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 
And in his hand the hilt remained alone. 
Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful 



Glared, and he shook on high his menacing 

spear. 
And shouted "Rustum ! " Sohrab heard that 

shout, 
And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one 

step. 
And scanned with blinking eyes the advanc- 
ing form ; 
And then he stood bewildered ; and he 

dropped 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his 

side. 
He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the 

ground. 
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind 

fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted 

all 
The cloud; and the two armies saw the 

pair — 
30 



Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 
And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand. 
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — 
" Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to 

kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent ; 
Or else that the great Rustum would come 

down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would 

move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy 

fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool ! thou art slain, and by an unknown 

man ! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be. 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." 
And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied : — 
" Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt 

is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful 

man! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For were I matched with ten such men as 

thou. 
And I were he who till to-day I was. 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Which troubles aU my heart, and made my 

shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed 

foe. 
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man — tremble to 

hear! 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 
My father, whom I seek through all the 

world. 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! " 
As when some hunter in the spring hath 

found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest. 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake. 
And pierced hei with an arrow as she rose, 
And followed her to find her where she fell 
Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 



466 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



His huddling young left sole ; at that, he 

checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 
In some far stony gorge out of his ken — 
A heap of fluttering feathers. N'ever more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 
Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy scream, as she sails by. 
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his 

loss — 
So Rustum knew not his own loss ; but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 
But with a cold, incredulous voice, he 

said: 
" What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son." 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : 
" Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear — 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries 

long, 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from 

here ; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him 

leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee — 
Fierce man, bethink thee — for an only son ! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance 

be! 
0, could I live till I that grief had seen ! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With that old king, her father, who grows 

gray 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp. 
With spoils and honor, when the war is done. 
But a dark rumor will be bruited up. 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; 
But that in battle with a nameless foe. 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 

He spoke ; and as he ceased he wept aloud. 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
He spoke ; but Rustum listened, plunged in 

thought. 



l!^ or did he yet believe it was his son 

Who spoke, although he called back names 

he knew ; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : 
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
Rustum should take the boy, to train in 

arms ; 
And so he deemed that either Sohrab took, 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deemed he ; yet he listened, plunged in 

thought ; 
And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon. Tears gathered in his 

eyes; 
For he remembered his own early youth. 
And all its bounding rapture. As, at dawn, 
The shepherd from his mountain lodge des- 
cries 
A far bright city, smitten by the sun, 
Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 
His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her 

bloom ; 
And that old king, her father, who loved well 
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair 

child 
With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. 
They three, in that long-distant summer- 
time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful 

hills 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth. 
Of age and looks to be his own dear son. 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
Like some rich hyacinth, which by the 

scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut. 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed. 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
On the mown, dying grass : so Sohrab lay, 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and 
said : 
" Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might weU 

have loved ! 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM, 



46*7 



Have told thee false — thou art no t Eustum's 

son. 
For Eustum had no son. One child he had — 
But one — a girl ; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of 

us; 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor 

war." 
But Sohrab answered him in wrath ; for 

now 
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew 

fierce. 
And he desired to draw forth the steel, 
And let the blood flow free, and so to die. 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe ; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : 
"Man, who art thou, who dost deny my 

words ? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men ; 
And Falsehood, while I lived, was far from 

mine. 
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Eustum to my mother gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore." 
He spoke : and all the blood left Eustum's 

cheeks ; 
And his knees tottered; and he smote his 

hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 
That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud ; 
And to his heart he pressed the other hand. 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : 
" Sohrab, that were a proof which could 

not lie. 
If thou show this, then art thou Eustum's 

son." 
Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab 

loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm. 
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 
Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain 

vase. 
An emperor's gift ; at early morn he paints, 
And all day long; and, when night comes, 

the lamp 
Lights up his studious forehead and thin 

hands : 
So delicately pricked the sign appeared 
On Sohrab's arm — the sign of Eustum's seal. 
It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, 



Eustum's great father, whom they left to 

die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. 
Him that kind creature found, and reared, 

and loved ; 
Then Eustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm. 
And himself scanned it long with mournful 

eyes. 
And then he touched it with his hand and 

said: 
"How sayest thou? Is that sign the 

proper sign 
Of Eustum's son, or of some other man's ? " 
He spoke: but Eustum gazed, and gazed, 

and stood 
Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp 

cry— 
" 0, Boy — Thy Father ! " — and his voice chok- 
ed there. 
And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes. 
And his head swam, and he sank down to 

earth. 
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and 

cast 
His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips. 
And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his 

cheeks. 
Trying to call him back to life. And life 
Came back to Eustum, and he oped his eyes, 
And they stood wide with horror; and he 

seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around. 
And threw it on his head, and smirched his 

hair — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering 

arms; 
And strong, convulsive groanings shook his 

breast, 
And his sobs choked him ; and he clutched 

his sword 
To draw it, and for ever let life out. 
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his 

hands ; 
And with a soothing voice he spoke, and 

said: 
" Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
The doom that at my birth was written down 
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's uncon- 
scious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou. 



468 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



"When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke 

too, 
I know it. But Fate trod those promptings 

down 
Fnder its iron heel ; Fate, Fate engaged 
The strife, and hurled me on my father's 

spear. 
But let us speak no more of this — ^I find 
My father ; let me feel that I have found. 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my 

cheeks. 
And wash them with thy tears, and say, 

'My Son!' 
Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands 

of life, 
And swift ; for like the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
But it was writ in Heaven that this should 

be." 
So said he: and his voice released the 

heart 
Of Kustum, and his tears broke forth; he 

cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept 

aloud. 
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the 

hosts 
When they saw Kustnm's grief; and Kuksh, 

the horse. 
With his head bowing to the ground, and 

mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute 

woe, 
First to the one then to the other moved 
His head, as if enquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compas- 
sionate eyes. 
The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked 

the sand. 
But Kustum chid him with stern voice, and 

said: 
" Euksh, now thou grievest ; but, Kuksh, 

thy feet 
Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, 
When first they bore thy master to this field." 
But Sohrab looked upon the horse and 

said; 
" Is this then Kuksh ? How often, in past 

days, 



My mother told me of thee, thou brave 

steed — 
My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said 
That I should one day find thy lord and 

thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand npon thy mane. 
O Kuksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go. 
And snuffed the breezes of my father's home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
And seen the river of Helmund, and the 

lake 
Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee 

food — 
Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine — 
And said — ' O, Kuksh ! bear Kustum well ! ' 

But I 
Have never known my grandsire's furrowed 

face, 
N'or seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund 

stream ; 
But lodged among my father's foes, and 

seen 
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste. 
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only 

drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their 

sheep. 
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus 

stream — 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 

And, with a heavy groan, Kustum replied : 
" that its waves were flowing over me ! 
that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! " 
And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab re- 
plied : 
"Desire not that, my father! Thou must 

live; 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live; 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. 
And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not 
these ! 



SOHRAB AND RUSTU^|. 



469 



Let me entreat for them — what have they 

done? 
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my 

star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus hack in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with 

them, 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, ■ 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me — 
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy 

friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all ; 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and say : 
SoJirdb^ tlie mighty Rustuni's son^ lies tJiere^ 
Whom his great father did in ignorance Mil — 
And I be not forgotten in my grave." 

And, with a mournful voice, Kustum re- 
plied : 
" Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my 

son, 
So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents. 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with 

me. 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my 

friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones. 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all ; 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave ; 
And I will spare thy host — ^yea, let them 

go- 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
"What should I do with slaying any more ? 
For would that all whom I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive — my bitterest foes, 
Ajid they who were called champions in their 

time. 
And through whose death I won that fame I 

have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown ; 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! 
Or rather, would that I, even I myself. 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of 

thine, 



Not thou of mine ; and I might die, not thou ; 

And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 

Ajid Zal might weep above my grave, not 

thine ; 
And say — son, I iceep thee not too sore, 
For willingly, I Tcnow, thou mefst thine 

end/ — 
But now in blood and battles was my youth. 
And full of blood and battles is my age ; 
And I shall never end this life of blood." 
Then at the point of death, Sohrab re- 
plied : — 
" A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, 
N"ot yet. But thou shalt have it on that day 
"When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. 
Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, 
Eeturning home over the salt, blue sea. 
From laying thy dear master in his grave." 
And Eustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and 

said : — 
" Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure." 
He spoke : and Sohrab smiled on him, and 

took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and 

eased 
His wound's imperious anguish. But the 

blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flowed with the stream ; all down his cold 

white side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and 

soiled — 
Like the soiled tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank 
By romping children, whom their nurses call 
From the hot fields at noon. His head 

drooped low ; 
His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he 

lay- 
White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy 

gasps. 
Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his 

frame. 
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, 
And fixed them feebly on his father's face. 
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his 

limbs 
Unwillingly the spu-it fled away. 
Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 



470 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And youth and bloom, and this delightful 

world. 
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. 
And the great Eustum drew his horseman's 

cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
As those black granite pillars, once high- 
reared 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now, mid their broken flights of 

steps, 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side- 
So in the sand lay Eustum by his son. 
And night came down over the solemn 

waste. 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
And darkened all ; and a cold fog, with night. 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their 

meal; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward ; the Tartars by the river marge. 
And Eustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on. 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land. 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Eejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian 

waste, 
Fnder the solitary moon. He flowed 
Eight for the Polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large. Then 

sands begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his 

streams. 
And split his currents — that for many a 

league 
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand, and matted, rushy 

isles — 
Oxus forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere — 
A foiled, circuitous wanderer. Till at last 
The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and 

wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new- 
bathed stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

Matthew Aknold. 



IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON. 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and when all beside the king 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and 

said : 
" father! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly what the goddess spake ; — old age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, 
"While I was resting ,on her knee both arms. 
And hitting it to make her mind my words, 
And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, 
Spoken from so far ofl", even from Olympus ? " 
The father placed his cheek upoji her head. 
And tears dropt down it ; but the king of 

men 
Eeplied not. Then the maiden spake once 

more. 
" father ! sayest thou nothing? Hearest 

thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 
When it was inarticulate as theirs, 
And the down deadened it within the nest ? " 
He moved her gently from him, silent still ; 
And this, and this alone, brought tears from 

her. 
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with 

sighs : 
" I thought to have laid down my hair before 
Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed 
Her polished altar with my virgin blood ; 
I thought to have selected the white flowers 
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of 

each 
By name, and with no sorrowful regret, 
Whether, since both my parents Avilled the 

change, 
I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow ; 
And (after these who mind ns girls the most) 
Adore our own Athene, that she would 
Eegard me mildly with her azure eyes — 
But, father, to see you no more, and see 
Your love, father! go ere I am gone! " 
Gently he moved her ofl", and drew her back, 
Bending his lofty head far over hers ; 



THE LAMENTATION FOE CELIN. 



4:11 



And the dark depths of nature heaved and 

burst. 
He turned away — not far, but silent still. 
She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh, 
So long a silence seemed the approach of 

death, 
And like it. Once again she raised her voice : 
" O father! if the ships are now detained. 
And all your vows move not the gods above, 
When the knife strikes me there will be one 

prayer 
The less to them ; and purer can there be 
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's 

prayer 
For her dear father's safety and success ? " 
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
An aged man now entered, and without 
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the 

wrist 
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
Then turned she where her parent stood, and 

cried : 
"0 father! grieve no more: the ships can 

sail." 

Waltek Savage Landoe. 



THE LAMENTATION^ FOR OELIK 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts 
are barred, 

At twilight, at the Yega-gate, there is a 
trampling heard ; 

There is a trampling heard, as of horses tread- 
ing slow, 

And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy 
sound of woe. 

"What tower is fallen ? what star is set ? what 
chief comes these bewailing? 

"A tower is fallen, a star is set ! Alas ! alas 
forCelin!" 

Three times they knock — three times they 
cry — and wide the doors they throw ; 

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ; 

In gloomy lines they, mustering, stand be- 
neath the hoUow porch. 

Each horseman grasping in his hand a black 
and flaming torch ; 



Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around 

is wailing. 
For all have heard the misery. — " Alas ! alas 

for Celin ! " 
Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencer- 

raje's blood — 
'Twas at the solemn jousting — around the 

nobles stood ; 
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies 

bright and fair 
Looked from their latticed windows, the 

haughty sight to share ; 
But now the nobles all lament — the ladies are 

bewailing — 
For he was Granada's darling knight — "Alas! 

alas for Oelin ! " 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by 
two. 

With ashes on their turbans spread, most piti- 
ful to view ; 

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in 
sable veil, 

Between the tambour's dismal strokes take 
up their doleful tale ; 

When stops the muflEled drum ye hear their 
brotherless bewailing. 

And aU the people, far and near, cry — "Alas! 
alas for Oelin ! " 

Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the 

purple pall, — 
The flower of aU Granada's youth, the love™ 

liest of them aU ; 
His dark, dark eyes are closed ; his rosy lip is 

pale; 
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon 

his burnished mail ; 
And ever more the hoarse tambour breaks in 

upon their wailing — 
Its sound is like no earthly sound — "Alas! 

alas for Oelin ! " 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands — the 

Moor stands at his door ; 
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one 

is weeping sore ; 
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and 

ashes black they strew 
Upon their broidered garments of crimson, 

green and blue ; 



4Y2 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW 



Before each gate the bier stands still — then 

bursts the loud bewailing 
From door and lattice, high and low — " Alas ! 

alas for Celin I " 

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she 

hears the people cry — 
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her 

glazed eye : 
'T was she that nursed him at her breast — 

that nursed him long ago ; 
She knows not whom they all lament, but 

soon she well shall know ! 
"With one deep shriek, she through doth break, 

when her ears receive their wailing — 
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die— Alas ! alas 

for Celin!" 

MooEiSH Ballad. 
Translation of J. G. Lockhaet. 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD. 

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, 

WHICH, IN THE AEABIC LANGUAGE, IS 

TO THE FOLLOWING PUEPOET : 

The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell : 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra's walls he gained. 
On the moment he ordained 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Wo is me, Alhama I 



And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 

Wo is me, Alhama / 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recalled them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake an aged Moor, 
In these words the king before : 
"Wherefore call on us, king? 
What may mean this gathering? " 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow — 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtained Alhama's hold." 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 

With his beard so white to see : 

" Good king ! thou art justly served — 

Good king ! this thou hast deserved. 

Wo is me, Alhama f 

"By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower : 
And strangers were received by thee, 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 

Wo is me, Alhaiaa I 

"And for this, O king! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement ; 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

" He who holds no laws in awe. 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won. 
And thyself with her undone." 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes. 
The monarch's wrath began to rise ; 



THE FISHERMEN, 



473 



Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The king hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Alhama's loss displeased— 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law. 
And others tremble when they saw. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish monarch know 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

"But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the king his land hath lost, 
Tet others may have lost the most. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost; another, wealth or fame. 

Wo is me, Alhama I 

" I lost a damsel in that hour. 
Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor said. 
They severed from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's walls with speed 
'T was carried, as the king decreed. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Wo is me, Alhama f 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The king weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Wo is me, Alhama / 

Anonymous (Spanish). 
Translation of Loed Bteon. 



THE FISHERMEN. 

Theee fishers went sailing out into the 
West- 
Out into the West as the sun went down ; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him 
the best, 
And the children stood watching them out 
of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep; 
And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
down; 
And they looked at the "squall, and they 
looked at the shower. 
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged 
and brown ; 
Bat men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went 
down. 
And the women are watching and wringing 
their hands. 
For those who will never come back to 
the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to 
sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 
Chakles Kingslet. 



474 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 



THE PRISONEE OF CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart Avhich love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 

gloom — 
Their country conquers with their martyr- 
dom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every 

wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod 
Until his very steps have left a trace. 

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard! — May none those marks ef- 
face! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray, but not with years, 
IsTor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose ; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven, who now are one — 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have sealed — 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick Avail is fallen and left — 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chained us each to a colunm stone ; 
And we were three — yet, each alone. 
We could not move a single pace ; 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together, yet apart — 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart ; 
'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free. 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three ; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do, and did, my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 475 


The youngest, whom my father loved, 


Wash through the bars when winds were 


Because our mother's brow was given 


high, 


To him — with eyes as blue as heaven — 


And wanton in the happy sky ; 


For him my soul was sorely moved ; 


And then the very rock hath rocked. 


And truly might it be distrest 


And I have felt it shake, unshocked ; 


To see such bird in such a nest ; 


Because I could have smiled to see 


For he was beautiful as day 


The death that would have set me free. 


(When day was beautiful to me 




As to young eagles, being free), 


vn. 


A polar day, which will not see 


I said my nearer brother pined ; 


A sunset till its summer 's gone — 


I said his mighty heart declined. 


Its sleepless summer of long light. 


He loathed and put aAvay his food ; 


The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 


It w^as not that 't was coarse and rude, 


And thus he was, as pure and bright, 


For we were used to hunter's fare. 


And in his natural spirit gay. 


And for the like had little care. 


With tears for naught but other's ills ; 


The milk drawn from the mountain goat 


And then they flowed like mountain rills. 


Was changed for water from the moat ; 


Unless he could assuage the wo 


Our bread was such as captives' tears 


Which he abhorred to view below. 


Have moistened many a thousand years, 




Since man first pent his fellow-men, 


v. 


Like brutes, within an iron den. 


The other was as pure of mind, 


But what were these to us or him ? 


But formed to combat with his kind •, 


These wasted not his heart or limb ; 


Strong in his frame, and of a mood 


My brother's soul was of that mould 


Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 


Which in a palace had grown cold. 


And perished in the foremost rank 


Had his free breathing been denied 


With joy ; but not in chains to pine. 


The range of the steep mountain's side. 


His spirit withered with their clank ; 


But why delay the truth ? — ^he died. 


I saw it silently decline — 


I saw, and could not hold his head. 


And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine ! 


For reach his dying hand — ^nor dead. 


But yet I forced it on, to cheer 


Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 


Those relics of a home so dear. 


To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 


He was a hunter of the hills. 


He died — and they unlocked his chain, 


Had followed there the deer and wolf; 


And scooped for him a shallow grave 


To him this dungeon was a gulf, 


Even from the cold earth of our cave. 


And fettered feet the worst of ills. 


I begged them, as a boon, to lay 




His corse in dust whereon the day 


YI. 


Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; 


Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls. 


But then within my brain it wrought, 


A thousand feet in depth below, 


That even in death his freeborn breast 


Its massy waters meet and flow; 


In such a dungeon could not rest. 


Thus much the fathom-line was sent 


I might have spared my idle prayer — 


From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 


They coldly laughed, and laid him there, 


Which round about the wave enthrals ; 


The flat and turfless earth above 


A double dungeon wall and wave 


The being we so much did love ; 


Have made — and like a living grave. 


His empty chain above it leant — 


Below the surface of the lake 


Such murder's fitting monument ! 


The dark vault lies wherein we lay; 




We heard it ripple night and day ; 


VIII. 


Sounding o'er our heads it knocked. 


But he, the favorite and the flower. 


A.nd I have felt the winter's spray 


Most cherished since his natal hour, 



476 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyred father's dearest thought, 

My latest care — for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free — 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : 

1 've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 
I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion ; 
I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors — this was wo 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise ; 

For I was sunk in silence— lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound. 

And rushed to him : I found him not. 

I only stirred in this black spot ; 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink. 



Which bound me to my failing race. 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth, and one beneath — 
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. 
I took that hand which lay so still — 
Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
I had not strength to stir or strive, 
But felt that I was still alive — 
A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — ^but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew. 

First came the loss of light and air. 
And then of darkness too. 

I had no thought, no feeling — none : 

Among the stones I stood a stone ; 

And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 

As shrubless crags within the mist ; 

For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 

It was not night — ^it was not day; 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 

So hateful to my heavy sight ; 

But vacancy absorbing space. 

And fixedness, without a place ; 

There were no stars, no earth, no time, 

No check, no change, no good, no crime ; 

But silence, and a stirless breath 

Which neither was of life nor death — 

A sea of stagnant idleness. 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain- 
It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again — 
The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ban over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then, by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track : 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before ; 



THE PRISONEK OF CHILLON. 4:11 


I saw tlie glimmer of the sun 


Avoiding only, as I trod, 


Creeping as it before had done ; 


My brothers' graves without a sod ; 


But through the crevice where it came 


For if I thought with heedless tread 


That bird was perched as fond and tame, 


My step profaned their lowly bed. 


And tamer than upon the tree — 


My breath came gaspingly and thick. 


A lovely bird with azure wings, 


And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 


And song that said a thousand things. 




And seemed to say them all for me ! 


xn. 


I never saw its like before — 


I made a footing in the wall : 


I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 


It was not therefrom to escape, 


It seemed, like me, to want a mate, 


For I had buried one and all 


But was not half so desolate ; 


Who loved me in a human shape ; 


And it was come to love me when 


And the whole earth would henceforth be 


None lived to love me so again, 


A wider prison unto me ; 


And, cheering from my dungeon's brink. 


No child, no sire, no kin had I, 


Had brought me back to feel and think. 


No partner in my misery. 


I know not if it late were free, 


I thought of this, and I was glad, 


Or broke its cage to perch on mme ; 


For thought of them had made me mad ; 


But knowing well captivity. 


But I was curious to ascend 


Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine — 


To my barred windows, and to bend 


Or if it were, in winged guise. 


Once more upon the mountains high 


A visitant from Paradise ; 


The quiet of a loving eye. 


For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while 




Which made me both to weep and smile ! — 


xin. 


I sometimes deemed that it might be 


I saw them — and they were the same ; 


My brother's soul come down to me ; 


They were not changed, like me, in frame ; 


But then at last away it flew, 


I saw then- thousand years of snow 


And then 't was mortal well 1 knew ; 


On high — their wide, long lake below, 


For he would never thus have flown. 


And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 


And left me twice so doubly lone — 


I heard the torrents leap and gush 


Lone as the corse within its shroud. 


O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 


Lone as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 


I saw the white- walled distant town, 


And whiter sails go skimming down4^ 


While aU the rest of heaven is clear. 


And then there was a little isle, 


A frown upon the atmosphere. 


Which in my very face did smile — 


That hath no busiaess to appear 


The only one in view ; 


When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 


A small, green isle, it seemed no more. 




Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 


XI. 


But in it there were three tall trees, 


A kind of change came in my fate — 


And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 


My keepers grew compassionate. 


And by it there were waters flowing. 


I know not what had made them so — 


And on it there were young flowers growing 


They were inured to sights of woe ; 


Of gentle breath and hue. 


But so it was— my broken chain 


The flsh swam by the castle wall, 


With links unfastened did remain ; 


And they seemed joyous, each and all; 


And it was liberty to stride 


The eagle rode the rising blast — 


Along my cell from side to side. 


Methought he never flew so fast 


And up and down, and then athwart, 


As then to me he seemed to fly ; 


And tread it over every part ; 


And then new tears came in my eye, 


And round the pillars one by one, 


And I felt troubled, and would fain 


Returning where my walk begun — 


I had not left my recent chain ; 



478 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


And when I did descend again. 


Through the night, through the night, 


The darkness of my dim abode 


Where the sea lifts the wreck, 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 


Land in sight, close in sight. 


It was as is a new-dug grave, 


On the surf-flooded deck 


Closing o'er one we sought to save ; 


Stands the father so brave. 


And yet my glance, too much opprest, 


Driving on to his grave 


Had almost need of such a rest. 


Through the night ! 




ElCHAED HeNET StODDAED. 


XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days — 






I kept no count, I took no note — 


THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 


I had no hope my eyes to raise, 




And clear them of their dreary mote ; 


Word was brought to the Danish king 


At last came men to set me free, 


(Hurry!) 


I asked not why, and recked not where ; 


That the love of his heart lay suffering. 


It was at length the same to me. 


And pined for the comfort his voice would 


Fettered or fetterless to be ; 


bring; 


I learned to love despair. 


(0 ! ride as though you were flying !) 


And thus, when they appeared at last, 


Better he loves each golden curl 


And all my bonds aside were cast. 


On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 


These heavy walls to me had grown 


Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl ; 


A hermitage — and all my own ! 


And his Rose of the Isles is dying ! 


And half I felt as they were come 




To tear me from a sacred home. 


Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 


With spiders I had friendship made. 


(Hurry!) 


And watched them in their sullen trade ; 


Each one mounting a gallant steed 


Had seen the mice by moonlight play — 


Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 


And why should I feel less than they ? 


(0 ! ride as though you were flying!) 


We were all inmates of one place, 


Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 


And I, the monarch of each race. 


Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 


Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell ! 


Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst.; 


In quiet we had learned to dwell. 


But ride as they would, the king rode first. 


My very chains and I grew friends, 


For his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! 


So much a long communion tends 


His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 


To make us what we are : — even I 


(Hurry!) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and home- 


Regained my freedom with a sigh. 


LoED Bybon. 


ward gone ; 


* 


His little fair page now foUows alone, 




For strength and for courage trying ! 




The king looked back at that faithful child ; 




Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 


THE SEA. 


They passed the drawbridge with clattering 


Through the night, through the night, 


din, 
Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in 


In the saddest unrest. 


Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! 


Wrapt in white, all in white, 




With her babe on her breast. 


The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 


Walks the mother so pale. 


(Silence!) 


Staring out on tlie gale 


No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 


Through the night ! 


An echo returned on the cold grey morn. 



LORD ULLIN' 


S DAUGHTER. 479 


Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 


"And by my word ! the bonny bird 


The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 


In danger shall not tarry ; 


None welcomed the king from that weary 


So though the waves are raging white, 


ride ; 


I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 


For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 




The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 


By this the storm grew loud apace ; 


Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! 


The water- wraith was shrieking ; 




And in the scowl of heaven each face 


The panting steed, with a drooping crest. 


Grew dark as they were speaking. 


Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eyeing. 
The tears gushed forth which he strove to 


But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 


check ; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
" 0, steed — that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 


" haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I '11 meet the raging of the skies. 
But not an angry father." 


Cakoline Nokton. 


The boat has left a stormy land, 


• 


A stormy sea before her — 




When, ! too strong for human hand. 




The tempest gathered o'er her. 


LOKD ULLIN'S DAUGHTEE. 






And still they rowed amidst the roar 


A CHiEFTAii^r, to the Highlands bound, 


Of waters fast prevailing — 


Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 


Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 


And I '11 give thee a silver pound 


His wrath was changed to wailing. 


To row us o'er the ferry." 






For sore dismayed, through storm and 


" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 


shade 


This dark and stormy water ? " 


His child he did discover ; 


" 0, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 


One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 


And this Lord UlMn's daughter. 


And one was round her lover. 


"And fast before her father's men 


" Come back ! come back ! " he cried in 


Three days we 've fled together ; 


grief, 


For should he find us in the glen, 


"Across this stormy water ; 


My blood would stain the heather. 


And I 'U forgive your Highland chief. 




My daughter ! — my daughter ! " 


" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 




Should they our steps discover. 


'Twas vain: — the loud waves lashed the 


Then who will cheer my bonny bride 


shore. 


When they have slain her lover?" 


Keturn or aid preventing. 




The waters wild went o'er his child. 


Out spoke the hardy Highland wight. 


And he was left lamenting. 


" I '11 go, my chief— I 'm ready. 


Thomas Campbell. 


It is not for your silver bright. 


^ 


But for your winsome lady. 





480 



POEMS OF TKAGEDY AND SORROW 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 

WEITTEN WHEX THE NEWS AEEIVED. 

Toll for the brave — 
The brave that are no more ! 

All sunk beneath the wave, 
Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried. 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 

A land breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset — 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought, 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

ISTo tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 
A.nd she may float again. 

Full charged with England's thunder, 
And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone — 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the waves no more. 

William Cowpee. 



THE INCHOAPE ROCK. 

ISTo stir in the air, no stir in the sea — 
The ship was still as she might be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The holy abbot of Aberbrothok 

Had floated that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 

On the waves of the storm it floated and 

swung. 
And louder and louder its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock. 
And blessed the priest of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven shone so gay — 

All things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they sported round, 

And there was pleasure in their sound. 

The float of the Inchcape BeU was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck. 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of Spring — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirthful to excess ; 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the bell and float : 
Quoth he, "My men, puU out the boat ; 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I 'U plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 
Su' Ralph bent over from the boat. 
And cut the warning bell from the float. 

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ; 
The bubbles rose, and burst around. 



THE WKECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



481 



Quoth Sir Ealph, " The next who comes to 

the rock 
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Kalph the Rover sailed away — 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
They could not see the sun on high ; 
The wind had blown a gale all day ; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is, they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon. 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? 
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. 
Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell." 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along ; 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock — 
O, Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! 

EOBEET SOXJTHEY. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm ; 

His pipe was in his mouth ; 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke, now west, now south. 
31 



Then up and spake an old sailor. 

Had sailed the Spanish main : 
" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 



"Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast ; 
The snow feU hissing in the brine. 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 



Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 



" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daugh- 
ter. 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 



He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 



" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring ; 

O say, what may it be?" 
" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " 

And he steered for the open sea. 



" father ! I hear the sound of guns ; 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" father ! I see a gleaming light ; 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word — 

A frozen corpse was he. 



482 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies. 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming 
snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and 
prayed 
That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the 
wave 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever, the fitful gusts between, 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows ; 

She drifted a dreary wreck ; 
And a whooping billow swept the crew, 

Like icicles, from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool ; 
But the cruel rocks they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the mast went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast. 
To see the form of a maiden fair. 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ; 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of [N'orman's Woe ! 

Heney Wadswokth Longfellow. 



THE MAKmER'S DREAM. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; 
His hammock swung loose at the sport of 
the wind ; 
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew 
away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his 
mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native 

bowers. 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry 

morn; 
While memory stood sideways half covered 

with flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its 

thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy 

rise; 
Now far, far behind him the green waters 

glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his 

eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the 
thatch, 
And the swallow chirps sweet from her 
nest in the wall ; 
All trembling with transport, he raises the 
latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his 
call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of de- 
light; 
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm 
tear ; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom 
holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his 
breast ; 
Joy quickens his pulses — his hardships seera 
o'er ; 



HOW'S MY BOY. 



485. 



And a murmur of • happiness steals through 
his rest — 
" God ! thou hast blest me — ^I ask for no 



Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts 
on his eye ? 
Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms 
on his ear ? 
'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell 
on the sky ! 
'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of 
the sphere ! 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to 
the deck ; 
Amazement confronts him with images 
dire; 
"Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel 
a wreck ; 
The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are 
on fire. 

Like mountains the billows tremendously 
swell ; 
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to 
save ; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wings 
o'er the wave ! 

0, sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! 
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work 
of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched 
bright — 
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's 
honeyed kiss ? 

O, sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes 
repay ; 
Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the 
main. 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for 
thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless 
surge ; 



But the white foam of waves sliaU thy wind- 
ing-sheet be, 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy 
dirge ! 

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall 
be laid— 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall 
grow; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be 
made. 
And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle 
away. 
And still the vast waters above thee shall 
roll; 
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye — 
O, sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy 
soul! 

■William Dimond. 



HOW'S MY BOY? 

" Ho, sailor of the seal 

How 's my boy — my boy ? " 

" What 's your boy's name, good wife, 

And in what good ship sailed he ? " 

" My boy John — 

He that went to sea — 

What care I for the ship, sailor ? 

My boy's my boy to me. 

" You come back from sea, 
And not know my John ? 
I might as well have asked some lands- 
man, 
Yonder down in the town. 
There 's not an ass in all the parish 
But knows my John. 

" How 's my boy — my boy ? 
And unless you let me know 
I '11 swear you are no sailor, 
Bluejacket or no — 
Brass buttons or no, sailor, 
Anchor and crown or no — 



484 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton' " — 


Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 


" Speak low, woman, speak low !" 


When He, who all commands. 




Shall give, to call hfe's crew together. 


"And why should I speak low, sailor. 

About my own boy John ? 

If I was loud as I am proud 

I 'd sing him over the town ! 

Why should I speak low, sailor ? " — 

" That good ship went down." 

" How 's my boy — my boy ? 
What care I for the ship, sailor — 


The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doffed ; 
For, though his body's under hatches. 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Chakleb Dibdin. 


THE MOON WAS A-WANING. 


I was never aboard her. 




Be she afloat or be she aground, 


The moon was a- waning, 


Sinking or swimming, I '11 be bound 


The tempest was over ; 


Her owners can afford her ! 


Fair was the maiden. 


I say, how 's my John ? " — 


And fond was the lover ; 


" Every man on board went down, 


But the snow was so deep 


Every man aboard her." 


That his heart it grew weary ; 




And he sunk down to sleep, 


" How 's my boy — ^my boy ? 


In the moorland so dreary. 


What care I for the men, sailor? 




I 'm not their mother — 


Soft was the bed 


How 's my boy— my boy ? 


She had made for her lover, 


Tell me of him and no other ! 


White were the sheets 


How 's my boy — ^my boy ? " 


And embroidered the cover ; 


Sydney Dobbll. 


But his sheets are more white, 




And his canopy grander ; 
And sounder hesleeps 


* 




Where the hill foxes wander. 


TOM BOWMNTG. 




Fere, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 


Alas, pretty maiden. 

What sorrows attend you ! 


The darling of our crew ; 


I see you sit shivering. 


No more he '11 hear the tempest howling — 


With lights at your window ; 


For Death has broached him to. 


But long may you wait 


His form was of the manliest beauty ; 


Ere your arms shall enclose him ; 


His heart was kind and soft ; 


For still, still he lies. 


Faithful below, he did his duty ; 


With a wreath on his bosom I 


But now he 's gone aloft. 






How painful the task 


Tom never from his word departed — 


The sad tidings to tell you!— 


His virtues were so rare ; 


An orphan you were 


His friends were many and true-hearted; 


Ere this misery befell you ; 


His Poll was kind and fair. 


And far in yon wild. 


And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly — 


Where the dead-tapers hover. 


Ah, many's the time and oft ! 


So cold, cold and wan. 


But mirth is turned to melancholy, 


Lies the corpse of your lover ! 


For Tom is gone aloft. 

1 


James Hogg. 



THE DREAM OF 


EUGENE ARAM. 485 




Now up the mead, then down the mead, 


THE DEEAM OF EUGENE AKAM. 


And past a shady nook — 




And, lo ! he saw a little boy 


'T WAS in the prime of summer time, 


That pored upon a book ! 


An evening calm and cool, 




And four-and-twenty happy boys 


"My gentle lad, what is 't you read- 


Came bomiding out Of school ; 


Eomance or fairy fable ? 


There were some that ran and some that 


Or is it some historic page, 


leapt, 


Of kings and crowns unstable ? " 


Like troutlets in a pool. 


The young boy gave an upward glance — 




"Itis 'The Death of Abel.'" 


Away they sped with gamesome minds, 


■ 


And souls untouched by sin ; 




To a level mead they came, and there 


The Usher took six hasty strides, 


They drave the wickets in : 


As smit with sudden pain — 


Pleasantly shone the setting sun 


Six hasty strides beyond the place. 


Over the town of Lynn. 


Then slowly back again ; 




And down he sat beside the lad, 


Tiike sportive deer they coursed about, 


And talked with him of Cain ; 


And shouted as they ran — 




Turning to mirth all things of earth. 


And, long since then, of bloody men, 


As only boyhood can ; 


Whose deeds tradition saves ; 


But the Usher sat remote from all. 


And lonely folk cut off unseen, 


A melancholy man ! 


And hid in sudden graves ; 




And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 


His hat was off, his vest apart. 


And murders done in caves ; 


To catch heaven's blessed breeze; 




For a burning thought was in his brow. 




And his bosom ill at ease ; 


And how the sprites of injured men 


So he leaned his head on his hands, and 


Shriek upward from the sod ; 


read 


Aye, how the ghostly hand will point 


The book between his knees ! 


To show the burial clod ; 




And unknown facts of guilty acts 




Are seen in drea.ms from God! 


Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 




Nor ever glanced aside ; 




For the peace of his soul he read that book 


He told how murderers walk the earth 


In the golden eventide ; 


Beneath the curse of Cain — 


Much study had made him very lean, 


"With crimson clouds before their eyes, 


And pale, and leaden-eyed. 


And flames about their brain ; 




For blood has left upon their souls 


At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 


Its everlasting stain ! 


"With a fast and fervent grasp 




He strained the dusky covers close, 


"And well," quoth he, "I know, for 


And fixed the brazen hasp : 


• 7 X 7 7 

truth, 


" 0, G-od ! could I so close my mind. 


Their pangs must be extreme — 


And clasp it with a clasp ! " 


"Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 




"Who spill life's sacred stream ! 


Then leaping on his feet upright. 


For why ? Methought, last night I wrought 


Some moody turns he took — 


A murder, in a dream ! 



486 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



" One that had never done me wrong— 

A feeble man and old ; 
I led him to a lonelj field — 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
Now here, said I, this man shall die, 

And I will have his gold ! 

" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 
And one with a heavy stone, 

One hurried gash with a hasty knife — 
And then the deed was done : 

There was nothing lying at my feet 
But lifeless flesh and bone ! 



" Kothing but lifeless flesh and bone. 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I feared him all the more. 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look, 

That murder could not kill ! 

" And, lo ! the universal air 
Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; — 

Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
Were looking down in blame ; 

I took the dead man by his hand, 
And called upon his name ! 

" God ! it made me quake to see 

Such sense within the slain ! 
But when I touched the lifeless clay. 

The blood gushed out amain ! 
For every clot a burning spot 

Was scorching in my brain ! 

" My head was like an ardent coal — 

My heart as solid ice ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 

Was at the Devil's price. 
A dozen times I groaned — the dead 

Had never groaned but twice ! 

" And now, from forth the frowning sky, 
From the Heaven's topmost height, 

I heard a voice — the awful voice 
Of the blood-avenging sprite : 

* Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, 
And hide it from my sight ! ' 



"And I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream — 
The sluggish water, black as ink. 

The depth was so extreme : 
My gentle Boy, remember ! this 

Is nothing but a dream ! 

"Down went the corse with a hollow 
plunge. 

And vanished in the pool ; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. 

And washed my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young. 

That evening in the school. 

" Heaven ! to think of their white souls, 

And mine so black and grim ! 
I could not share in childish prayer, 

ISTor join in evening hymn ; 
Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 

'Mid holy cherubim ! 

" And peace went with them, one and all. 

And each calm pillow spread ; 
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain. 

That lighted me to bed, 
And drew my midnight curtains round 

With fingers bloody red ! 

" All night I lay in agony, 

In anguish dark and deep ; 
My fevered eyes I dared not close, 

But stared aghast at Sleep ; 
For Sin had rendered unto her 

The keys of hell to keep ! 

"All night I lay in agony, 

From weary chime to chime ; 
With one besetting horrid hint, 

That racked me all the time — 
A mighty yearning, like the first 

Fierce impulse unto crime — 

" One stern tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave ! 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave — 
Still urging me to go and see 

The dead man in his grave ! 



YOUNG AIRLY. 



48Y 



" Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As light was in the sky, 
And sought the black accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye ; 
And I saw the dead in the river bed, 

For the faithless stream was dry. 

" Merrily rose the lark, and shook - 

The dew-drop from its wing ; 
But I never marked its morning flight — 

I never heard it sing ; 
For I was stooping once again 

Under the horrid thing. 

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 

I took him up and ran ; 
There was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began — 
Tn a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 

I hid the murdered man ! 

"And all that day I read in school. 
But my thought was other where ; 

As soon as the mid-day task was done. 
In secret I was there — 

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves. 
And still the corse was bare! 



" Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep — 
Or land or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep. 

" So wills the fierce avenging sprite. 

Till blood for blood atones ! 
Aye, though he 's buried in a cave. 

And trodden down with stones, 
And years have rotted off his flesh — 

The world shall see his bones ! 

" O God ! that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake ! 
Again — again, with dizzy brain. 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging hot, 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 



"And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul — 

It stands before me now ! " 
The fearful boy looked up, and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin's eyelids kissed, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn 

Through the cold and heavy mist; 
And Eugene Aram walked between, 

With gyves upon his wrist. 

Thomas Hood. 



YOUN'G AIRLY. 

Ken ye ought of brave Lochiel ? 

Or ken ye ought of Airly ? 
They have belted on their bright broad swords, 

And off and awa' wi' Charlie. 
N'ow bring me fire, my merry, merry men, 

And bring it red and yarely — 
At mirk midnight there flashed a light 

O'er the topmost towers of Airly. 

What lowe is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel, 

Which gleams so red and rarely ? 
By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie, 

It 's my ain bonnie hame of Airly ! 
Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel, 

And calm your mood, quo' Charlie ; 
Ere morning glow we 'U raise a lowe 

Far brighter than bonnie Airly. 

O, yon fair tower 's my native tower ! 

Nor wiU it soothe my mourning. 
Were London palace, tower, and town, 

As fast and brightly burning. 
It 's no my hame — my father's hame, 

That reddens my cheek sae sairlie — 
But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 

To smoor in the smoke of Akly. 

Anontmous. 



488 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



A SNOW-STOEM. 



SCENE m A VEEMONT WINTEE. 



'T IS a fearful night in the winter time, 

As cold as it ever can be ; 
The roar of the blast is heard Hke the chime 

Of the waves on an angry sea. 
The moon is full ; but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; 
And over the sky from south to north 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 

In the strength of a mighty glee. 



All day had the snow come down — all day 

As it never came down before ; 
And over the hills, at sun-set, lay 

Some two or three feet, or more ; 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked and the well-curbs 

gone ; 
The haystack had grown to a mountain li^, 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster 
drift. 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of snow, 
"While the air grows sharp and chill. 

And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
Is heard on the distant hill ; 

And the Norther, see ! on the mountain peak 

In his breath how the old trees writhe and 
shriek ! 

He shouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 

in. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad. 
In the drifts and the freezing air. 

Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road. 
With the snow in his shaggy hair. 

He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; 

He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 

Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet. 

His nose is pressed on his quivering feet — 
Pray what does the dog do there ? 



A farmer came from the village plain — 

But he lost the travelled way ; 
And for hours he trod with might and main 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold winds blew. 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew. 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown. 
At last in her struggles floundered down, 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort. 

She plunged in the drifting snow, 
While her master urged, till his breath grew 
short. 
With a. word and a gentle blow ; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were 

tight ; 
His hands were numb and had lost their 

might ; 
So he wallowed back to his half-fiUed sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 
With his coat and the buflTalo. 



rv. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein. 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need. 
For a while he strives with a wistful cry 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye. 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the bufi'alo over his lap. 

And whines when he takes no heed. 



The wind goes down and the storm is o'er — 

'T is the hour of midnight, past ; 
The old trees writhe and bend no more 

In the whirl of the rushing blast. 
The silent moon with her peaceful light 
Looks down on the hills with snow all white ; 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump. 
Afar on the plain are cast. 

But cold and dead- by the hidden log 
Are they who came from the town — 

The man in bis sleigh, and his faithful dog. 
And his beautiful Morgan brown — 



OFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH, 



489 



In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, 
With his cap on his head and the reins in his 

hand — 
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted 

sleet. 
Where she lay when she floundered down. 

Chaeles Gr. Eastmai^^. 



THE HUI^TER'S VISION. 

Upon a rock that, high and sheer, 
Rose from the mountain's breast, 

A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared to the soft summer air 

His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

AU dim in haze the mountains lay, 

With dimmer vales between ; 
And rivers glimmered on their way. 

By forests faintly seen ; 
While ever rose a murmuring sound. 
From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, tiU he seemed to hear 

A strain, so soft and low 
That whether in the mind or ear 

The listener scarce might know ; 
With such a tone, so sweet, so mild. 
The watching mother lulls her child. 

" Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, 
*' Thou faint with toil and heat. 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet, 

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 

Are waiting there to welcome thee." 

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky 

Amid the noontide haze, 
A shadowy region met his eye. 

And grew beneath his gaze, 
As if the vapors of the air 
Had gathered into shapes so fair. 



Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 
Showed bright on rocky bank. 

And fountains welled beneath the bowers. 
Where deer and pheasant drank. 

He saw the glittering streams ; he heard 

The rustling bough and twittering bird. 

And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear. 
There lived and walked again ; 

And there was one who many a year 
Within her grave had lain, 

A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — 

His heart was breaking when she died. 

Bounding, as was her wont, she came 
Right towards his resting place. 

And stretched her hand and called his name. 
With that sweet smiling face. 

Forward with fixed and eager eyes. 

The hunter leaned in act to rise : 

Forward he leaned — and headlong down 
Plunged from that craggy wall ; 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, 
An instant, in his fall — 

A frightful instant, and no more ; 

The dream and life at once were o'er. 

"William Citllen Beyant. 



SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 

Softly woo away her breath. 

Gentle Death ! 
Let her leave thee with no strife, 

Tender, mournful, murmuring Life ! 
She hath seen her happy day — 

She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
Now she pales and shrinks away. 

Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 

She hath done her bidding here. 

Angels dear ! 
Bear her perfect soul above. 

Seraph of the skies — sweet Love ! 
Good she was, and fair in youth ; 

And her mind was seen to soar. 
And her heart was wed to truth : 

Take her, then, for evermore — 

For ever — evermore ! 

Baeey COEirWALL. 



490 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



You must wake and call me early, call me 
early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the 
glad New-year — 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the mad- 
dest, merriest day ; 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm 
to be Queen o' the May. 

n. 
There 's many a black, black eye, they say, 

but none so bright as mine ; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate 

and Caroline ; 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, 

they say : 
So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm 

to be Queen o' the May. 

ni. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall 
never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day be- 
gins to break ; 

But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, 
and garlands gay ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

lY. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye 

should I see. 
But Eobin leaning on the bridge beneath the 

hazel-tree ? 
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave 

him yesterday, — 
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was 

all in white ; 
And I ran by hira without speaking, like a 

flash of light. 



They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not 

what they say. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



They say he's dying aU for love — but that 

can never be ; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — ^what 

is that to me ? 
There 's many a bolder lad '11 woo me any 

summer day ; 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

YII. 

Little EflBe shall go with me to-morrow to 

the green, 
And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me 

made the Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'U come 

from far away, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

VIII. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven 

its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint 

sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
Ajid the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire 

in swamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



The night-winds come and go, mother, upon 

the meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to 

brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of 

the livelong day, 
And Pm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm 

to be Queen o' the May. 



All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green 

and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over 

all the hill. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



491 



And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill mer- 
rily glance and play, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother 
I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



XI. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me 

early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the 

glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, 

merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW yeae's eve. 



If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, 

mother dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad 

ISTew-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see — 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and 

think no more of me. 



n. 

To-night I saw the sun set — ^he set and left 

behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all 

my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year 's coming up, mother ; but 

I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon 

the tree. 

ni. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we 

had a merry day — 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they 

made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole and in 

the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall 

white chimney-tops. 



IV. 

There 's not a flower on all the hiUs — ^the frost 

is on the pane ; 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come 

again. 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come 

out on high — 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 



The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall 

elm-tree. 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow 

lea. 
And the swallow 'ill come back again with 

summer o'er the wave. 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the 

mouldering grave. 

VI. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that 
grave of mine. 

In the early, early morning the summer sun 'ill 
shine. 

Before the red cock crows from the farm up- 
on the hiU — 

When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all 
the world is stiU. 

vn. 

When the flowers come again, mother, be- 
neath the waning light 

You 'U never see me more in the long gray 
fields at night ; 

When from the dry dark wold the summer 
airs blow cool 

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the 
bulrush in the pool. 



You 'U bury me, my mother, just beneath the 

hawthorn shade. 
And you '11 come sometimes and see me where 

I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear 

you when you pass. 
With your feet above my head in the long 

and pleasant grass. 



492 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



IX. 

I have been wild and wayward, bnt you'll 

forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my 

cheek and brow ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your 

grief be wild ; 
You should not fret for me, mother — you 

have another child. 

X. 

If I can, I '11 come again, mother, from out 

my resting-place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall 

look upon your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken 

what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think 

I 'm far away. 

XI. 

Good-night! good-night! when I have said 

good-night for evermore, 
And you see me carried out fi*om the threshold 

of the door, 
Po n't let Effie come to see me till my grave 

be growing green — 
She '11 be a better child to you than ever I 

have been. 



She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary 

floor. 
Let her take 'em — they are hers ; I shall never 

garden more. 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the 

rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor-window, and the box of 

mignonette. 

xin. 
Good-night, sweet mother ! Call me before 

the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at 

morn; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad 

New-year — 
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, 

mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I. 

I THOTTGHT to pass away before, and yet alive 

J am; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating 

., of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of 

the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now 

the violet 's here. 

n. 

sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath 

the skies ; 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me 

that cannot rise ; 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the 

flowers that blow ; 
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that 

long to go. 



It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave 

the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, 

His wiU be done ! 
But still I think it can 't be long before I find 

release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told 

me words of peace. 

IV. 

blessings on his kindly voice, and on his 
silver hair ! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he 
meet me there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his 
silver head ! 

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt be- 
side my bed. 



He showed me all the mercy, for he taught 

me all the sin ; 
ISTow, though my lamp was lighted late, 

there 's One will let me in. 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if 

that could be ; 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died 

for me. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 493 


VI. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the 


XI. 

So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. 


death-watch beat — 


I know 


There came a sweeter token when the night 


The blessed music went that way my soul 


and morning meet ; 


will have to go. 


But sit beside mj bed, mother, and put your 


And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to- 


hand in mine, 


day; 


And Effie on the other side, and I will tell 


But Effie, you must comfort her when I am 


the sign. 


past away. 


VII. 


xn. 


A 11 in the wild March-morning I heard the 


And say to Robin a kind word, and teU him 


angels call — 


not to fret ; 


It was when the moon was setting, and the 


There 's many worthier than I would make 


dark was over all ; 


him happy yet. 


The trees began to whisper, and the wind be- 


If I had lived — ^I cannot teU — I might have 


gan to roll, 


been his wife ; 


And in the wild March-morning I heard them 


But all these things have ceased to be, with 


call my soul. 


my desire of life. 


vm. 


XIU. 


For lying broad awake, I thought of you and 


look ! the sun begins to rise ! the heavens 


EflSedear; 


are in a glow ; 


I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer 


He shines upon a hundred fields, and all ot 


here; 


them I know. 


With all my strength I prayed for both — and 


And there I move no longer now, and there 


so I felt resigned, 


his light may shine — 


And up the valley came a swell of music on 


Wild flowers in the valley for other hands 


the wind. 


than mine. 


IX. 


XIV. 


I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in 


sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere 


my bed ; 


this day is done 


And then did something speak to me — I know 


The voice that now is speaking may be be- 


not what was said ; 


yond the sun — 


For great delight and shuddering took hold 


For ever and for ever with those just souls 


of all my mind, 


and true — 


And up the valley came again the music on 


And what is life, that we should moan ? why 


the wind. 


make we such ado ? 


X. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not 


XV. 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home, 


for them— it 's mine ; " 


And there to wait a little while till you and 


And if it comes three times, I thought, I take 


Effie come — 


it for a sign. 


To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon 


And once again it came, and close beside the 


your breast — 


window-bars — 


And the wicked cease from troubling, and 


Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and 


the weary are at rest. 


die among the stars. 


Alfeed Tennysoit. 



494 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




Had it lived long, I dp not know 




Whether it, too, might have done so 


THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE 


As Sylvio did — ^liis gifts might be 


DEATH OF HER FAWN. 


Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 




For I am sure, for aught that I 


The Tvanton troopers, riding by, 


Could in so short a time espy, 


Have sliot my fawn, and it will die. 


Thy love was far more better than 


Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 


The love of false and cruel man. 


Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive. 


With sweetest milk, and sugar, first 


Them any harm; alas! nor could 


I it at mine own fingers nursed ; 


Thy death yet do them any good. 


And as it grew, so every day 


I 'm sure I never wished them ill — 


It waxed more white and sweet than they. 


Nor do I for all fchis, nor will ; 


It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 


But, if my simple prayers may yet 


I blushed to see its foot more soft 


Prevail with Heaven to forget 


And white— shall I say than my hand? 


Thy murder, I wOl join my tears, 


Nay, any lady's of the land. 


Rather than fail. But, my fears ! 


It is a wondrous thing how fleet 


It cannot die so. Heaven's Xing 


'T was on those little silver feet ! 


Keeps register of every thing ; 


With what a pretty, skipping grace 


And nothing may we use in vain ; 


It oft would challenge me the race ! 


Even beasts must be with justice slain — 


And when 't had left me far away. 


Else men are made their deodands. 


'T would stay, and run again, and stay; 


Though they should wash their guilty hands 


For it was nimbler, much, thR,n hinds, 


In this warm life-blood, which doth part' 


And trod as if on the four winds. 


From thine and wound me to the heart, 


I have a garden of my own — 


Yet could they not be clean — their stain 


But so with roses overgrown, 


Is dyed in such a purple grain ; 


And lilies, that you would it guess 


There is not such another in 


To be a little wilderness ; 


The world to offer for their sin. 


And all the spring-time of the year 


Inconstant Sylvio ! when yet 


It only loved to be there. 


I had not found him counterfeit. 


Among the beds of lilies I 


One morning (I remember well). 


Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 


Tied in this silver chain and bell, 


Yet could not, till itself would rise, 


Gave it to me ; nay, and I know 


Find it, although before mine eyes ; 


What he said then — I 'm sure I do : 


For in the flaxen lilies' shade 


Said he, "Look how your huntsman here 


It like a bank of lilies laid. 


Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his dear ! " 


Upon the roses it would feed, 


But Sylvio soon had me beguiled — 


Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed ; 


This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; 


And then to me 't would boldly trip, 


And, quite regardless of my smart. 


And print those roses on my lip. 


Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 


But all its chief delight was stiU 


Thenceforth, I set myself to play 


On roses thus itself to fill ; 


My solitary time away, 


And its pure virgin limbs to fold 


With this ; and, very well content, 


In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 


Could so mine idle life have spent. 


Had it lived long, it would have been 


For it was full of sport, and light 


Lilies without, roses within. 


Of foot and heart, and did invite 


help ! help ! I see it faint. 


Me to its game. It seemed to bless 


And die as calmly as a saint ! 


Itself in me ; how could I less 


See how it weeps ! the tears do come, 


Than love it ? 1 cannot be 


Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 


Unkind t' a beast that loveth me. 


So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 



LAMENT OF THE 


IRISH EMIGRANT. 495 


The holy frankincense doth flow ; 


The church where we were wed, Mary ; 


The brotherless Heliades 


I see the spire from here. 


Melt in such amber tears as these. 


But the grave-yard Hes between, Mary, 


I in a golden vial will 


And my step might break your rest — 


Keep these two crystal tears ; and fill 


For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 


It, till it do o'erflow, with mine ; 


With your baby on your breast. 


Then place it in Diana's shrine. 




Now my sweet Fawn is vanished to. 
"Whither the swans and turtles go ; 


I 'm very lonely now, Mary — 


For the poor make no new friends ; 


In fair Elysium to endure, 

"With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure. 


But, ! they love the better still 
The few our Father sends ! 


do not run too fast ! for I 


And you were all I had, Mary — 


"Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. 
First my unhappy statue shall 


My blessin' and my pride : 
There 's nothing left to care for now. 


J I X J 

Be cut in marble ; and withal. 


Since my poor Mary died. 


Let it be weeping too ! But there 


Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 


Th' engraver sure his art may spare, 


That still kept hoping on. 


For I so truly thee bemoan 


When the trust in God had left my soul. 


That I shall weep though I be stone ; 


And my arm's young strength was gone ; 


Until my tears, still drooping, wear 


There was comfort ever on your lip. 


My breast, themselves engraving there. 


And the kind look on your brow — 


There at my feet shalt thou be laid, 


I bless you, Mary, for that same, 


Of purest alabaster made ; 


Though you cannot hear me now. 


For I would have thine image be 




White as I can, though not as thee. 


I thank you for the patient smile 


Andkew Mautell. 


When your heart was fit to break — 




When the hunger pain was gnawin' there. 


^ 


And you hid it for my sake ; 


— — ♦— — 




I bless you for the pleasant word, 


LAMENT OF THE IKISH EMIGKANT. 


When your heart was sad and sore — 




! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 


I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 


Where grief can't reach you more ! 


"Where we sat side by side 


I 'm biddin' you a long farewell. 


On a bright May mornin' long ago, 


My Mary— kind and true ! 


When first you were my bride ; 


But I '11 not forget you, darling. 


The corn was springin' fresh and green. 


In the land I 'm goin' to ; 


And the lark sang loud and high ; 


They say there 's bread and work for all. 


And the red was on your lip, Mary, 


And the sun shines always there — 


And the love-Hght in your eye. 


But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 




Were it fifty times as fair ! 


The place is little changed, Mary ; 


The day is bright as then ; 


And often in those grand old woods 


The lark's loud song is in my ear. 


I '11 sit, and shut my eyes, 


And the corn is green again ; 


And my heart will travel back again 


But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 


To the place where Mary lies ; 


And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 


And I '11 think I see the little stile 


And I still keep list'nin' for the words 


Where we sat side by side. 


You never more will speak. 


And the springin' corn, and the bright May 


'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 


morn, 
When first you were my bride. 


And the little church stands near — 


Lady Ditffekin. 



496 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




Alas! for the rarity 


THE BEIDGE OF SIGHS. 


Of Christian charity 




Under the sun ! 


" Drowned 1 Drowned 1 "—Hamlet. 


0! it was pitiful I 


One more unfortunate, 


Near a whole city full, 


Weary of breath, 


Home she had none. 


Kaslily importunate, 




Gone to her death ! 


Sisterly, brotherly. 




Fatherly, motherly 


Take her up tenderly, 


Feelings had changed — 


Lift her with care ! 


Love, by harsh evidence. 


Fashioned so slenderly — 


Thrown from its eminence ; 


Young, and so fair ! 


Even God's providence 




Seeming estranged. 


Look at her garments 




Clinging like cerements. 


Where the lamps quiver 


Whilst the wave constantly 


So far in the river. 


Drips from her clothing ; 


With many a light 


Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing ! 


From window and casement. 


From garret to basement. 




She stood, with amazement. 


Touch her not scornfully I 


Houseless by night. 


Think of her mournfully. 
Gently and humanly — 


The bleak wind of March 


Not of the stains of her : 


Made her tremble and shiver ; 


7 

All that remains of her 


But not the dark arch. 


Now is pure womanly. 


Or the black flowing river ; 




Mad from life's history, 


Make no deep scrutiny 


Glad to death's mystery, 


Into her mutiny. 


Swift to be hurled — 


Eash and undutiful ; 


Any where, any where 


Past all dishonor, 


Out of the world! 


Death has left on her 




Only the beautiful. 


In she plunged boldly — 




No matter how coldly 


Still, for all slips of hers — 


The rough river ran — 


One of Eve's family — 


Over the brink of it! 


Wipe those poor lips of hers. 


Picture it^think of it! 


Oozing so clammily. 


Dissolute Man ! 




Lave in it, drink of it, 


Loop up her tresses 


Then, if you can ! 


Escaped from the comb — 




Her fair auburn tresses — 


Take her up tenderly — 


Whilst wonderment guesses 


Lift her with care ! 


Where was her home ? 


Fashioned so slenderly — 




Young, and so fair ! 


Who was her father ? 




Who was her mother ? 


Ere her limbs, frigidly, 


Had she a sister ? 


Stiffen too rigidly. 


Had she a brother ? 


Decently, kindly, 


Or was there a dearer one 


Smooth and compose them ; 


StiU, and a nearer one 


And her eyes, close them. 


Yet, than all other? 


Staring so blindly ! 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 



49*7 



Dreadfully staring 
Tliroiigii muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity 
Burning insanity 
Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

Thomas Hood. 



THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. 

Sleep!— The ghostly winds are blowing! 
'No moon abroad — ^no star is glowing ; 
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing 
To the land where you and I are going ! 

We are going afar. 

Beyond moon or star, 
To the land where the sinless angels are ! 

I lost my heart to your heartless sire, 
('T was melted away by his looks of fire) — 
Eorgot my God, and my father's ire, 
All for the sake of a man's desire ; 
But now we '11 go 
Where the waters flow, 
And make us a bed where none shaU 
know. 

The world is cruel — the world is untrue ; 
Our foes are many, our friends are few ; 
No work, no bread, however we sue ! 
What is there left for me to do, 

But fly— fly 

From the cruel sky, 
And hide in the deepest deeps — and die ! 

BaEKT COENWALl. 

32 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

With flngers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A voman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 

And stiU with a voice of dolorons pitch 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 

" Work ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — ^work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It 's ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work 

Till the brain begins to swim ! 
Work — work — work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam., and gusset, and band. 

Band, and gusset, and seam — 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

" 0, Men, with sisters dear ! 

O, Men, with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a Shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of Death— 

That phantom of grisly bone ? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 

It seems so like my own 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
O God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw 

A crust of bread — and rags. 



498 POEMS OF TKAGEDY AND SORROW. 


That shattered roof— and this naked floor — 




A table — a broken chair — 


SOKG OF THE STT,FNT LAND. 


And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 




For sometimes falling there 1 


Into the Silent Land I 




Ah! who shall lead us thither? 


" Work — work — work ! 


Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather. 


From weary chime to chime ! 


And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand; 


Work — work — work — 


Who leads us with a gentle hand 


As prisoners work for crime ! 


Thither, 0, thither! 


Band, and gusset, and seam, 


Into the Silent Land? 


Seam, and gusset, and band — 




Till the heart is sick and the brain benmnbed, 


Into the Silent Land! 


As well as the weary hand. 


To you, ye boundless regions 




Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 


" Work — work — work 


Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and 


In the dull December light ! 


band ! 


And work — work — work, 


Who in Life's battle firm doth stand 


When the weather is warm and bright ! — 


Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 


While underneath the eaves 


Into the Silent Land ! 


The brooding swallows cling, 




As if to show me their sunny backs, 


OLand! OLand! 


And twit me with the Spring. 


For all the broken-hearted 




The mildest herald by our fate allotted 


" ! but to breathe the breath 


Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 


Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 


To lead us with a gentle hand 


With the sky above my head, 


Into the land of the great departed — 


And the grass beneath my feet ! 


Into the Silent Land ! 


For only one short hour 


JoHANN Gattdenz VON Salb. (Gennan.) 


To feel as I used to feel. 


Translation of H. W. Lokgfellow. 


Before I knew the woes of want 




And the walk that costs a meal! 




*' ! but for one short hour — 




A respite however brief! 


THF. PAUPER'S DEATHBED. 


Ko blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 


Teead softly ! bow the head — 


But only time for Grief! 


In reverent silence bow ! 


A little weeping would ease my heart ; 


No passing bell doth toll ; 


But in their briny bed 


Yet an immortal soul 


My tears must stop, for every drop 


Is passing now. 


Hinders needle and thread ! " 




Stranger, however great. 


With fingers weary and worn, 


With lowly reverence bow ! 


With eyelids heavy and red. 


There 's one in that poor shed- 


A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 


One by that paltry bed — 


Plying her needle and thread — 


Greater than thou. 


Stitch! stitch! stitch! 




In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 


Beneath that beggar's roof. 


And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — 


Lo ! Death doth keep his state ! 


Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 


Enter ! — no crowds attend — 


She sang this " Song of the Shirt! " 


Enter ! — no guards defend 


Thomas Hood. 


This palace gate. 



THE LAST 


JOURNEY. 499 


That pavement damp and cold 


Hearken! — ^he speaketh yet! — 


No smiling courtiers tread ; 


"0, friend! wUt thou forget 


One silent woman stands, 


(Friend — more than brother!) 


Lifting with meagre hands 


How hand in hand we 've gone, 


A dying head. 


Heart with heart linked in one — 




All to each other ? 


No mingling voices sound — 




An infant wail alone ; 


" 0, friend ! I go from thee — 


A sob suppressed — again 


Where the worm feasteth free, 


That short deep gasp— and then 


Darkly to dwell ; 


The parting groan! 


Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 




Friend ! is it come to this ? 


0! change— 0! wondrous change ! 


0, friend, farewell!" 


Burst are the prison bars ! 




This moment there, so low. 




So agonized — and now 


Uplift your load again ! 


Beyond the stars ! 


Take up the mourning strain — • 




Pour the deep wail ! 


! change — stupendous change ! 


Lo ! the expected one 


There lies the soulless clod! 


To his place passeth on — 


The sun eternal breaks ; 


Grave ! bid him hail ! 


The new immortal wakes — 




Wakes with his God. 


Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move ! 


Cakoline Bowles Soxtthet. 


Bear not the form we love 




Fast from our sight — 




Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun beam on him 


• 




Last looks of light. 


THE LAST JOUEKEY. 




Slowly, with measured tread, 


Here dwells his mortal foe ; 


Onward we bear the dead 


Lay the departed low. 


To his lone home ; 


Even at his gate ! 


Short grows the homeward road — 


Will the dead speak again — 


On with your mortal load ! — 


Utt'ring proud boasts, and vain 


0, grave ! we come. 


T/Rst words of hate ? 


Yet, yet — ah! hasten not 


Lo ! the cold lips unclose — 


Past each remembered spot 


List ! Hst ! what sounds are those, 


Where he hath been — 


Plaintive and low ? 


Where late he walked in glee, 


" 0, thou, mine enemy ! 


These from henceforth to be 


Come forth and look on me. 


Never more seen ! 


Ere hence I go. 


Eest ye— set down the bier! 


" Curse not thy foemen now — 


One he loved dwelleth here ; 


Mark ! on his pallid brow 


Let the dead lie 


Whose seal is set ! 


A moment that door beside. 


Pardoning I pass thy way ; 


Wont to fly open wide 


Then wage not war with clay — 


Ere he drew nigh. 


Pardon — ^forget ! " 



500 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


Now all his labor 's done ! 


He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 


Now, now the goal is won ! 


But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast : 


0, grave, we come ! 


Rattle his bones over the stones ! 


. Seal up the precious dust — 


He '5 only a pauper^ whom nobody owns ! 


Land of the good and just, 




Take the soul horae ! 


You bumpkins! who stare at your brother 


Caroline Bowles Soitthet. 


conveyed — 




Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 




And be joyful to think, when by death you 're 
laid low. 






You 've a chance to the grave like a gemman 


THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 


to go I 




Rattle his bones over the stones ! 


Theee 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly- 


Ee''s only a pauper^ whom nobody owns! 


round trot — 




To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot ; 


But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is 


The road it is rough, and the hearse has no 


sad, 


springs ; 


To think that a heart in humanity clad 


And hark to the dirge which the sad driver 


Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate 


sings : 


end. 


Rattle his bones over the stones ! 


And depart from the Kght without leaving a 


Ee''s only a pauper^ whom nolody owns! 


friend ! 




Bear soft his bones over the stones! 




Though a pauper^ he '5 one whom his MaJcer 


0, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are 


yet owns ! 


none — 


T. Noel. 


He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's 
gone — 




' 


Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or 




man; 


THE DEATH-BED. 


To the grave with his carcass as fast as you 




can: 


We watched her breathing thro' the night, 


Rattle his hones over the stones / 


Her breathing soft and low. 


Re^s only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 


As in her breast the wave of life 




Kept heaving to and fro. 


What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, 




and din ! 


So silently we seemed to speak, 


The whip how it cracks ! and the wheels, how 


So slowly moved about. 


they spin I 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges 


As we had lent her half our powers 


To eke her living out. 


is hurled!— 




The pauper at length makes a noise in the 


Our very hopes belied our fears, 


world 1 


Our fears our hopes belied — 


Rattle his bones over the stones ! 


We thought her dying when she slept, 


Ee''s only a pauper^ whom nobody owns! 


And sleeping when she died. 




For when the morn came, dim and sad, 


Poor pauper defunct I he has made some ap- 


And chill with early showers. 


proach 


Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 


To gentility, now that he's stretched in a 


Another morn than ours. 


coach ! 


Thomas Hood. 



HESTER. 601 


A DEATH-BED. 


HESTER. 


See suffering ended with the day ; 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away, 

In statue-like repose. 


When maidens such as Hester die. 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try. 
With vain endeavor. 


But when the sun, in all his state, 

Illumed the eastern skies. 
She passed through Glory's morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldeich. 


A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her, together. 


PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVATT,? 


A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate. 
That flushed her spirit ; 


Peace ! what can tears avail ? 
She lies all dumb and pale, 

And from her eye 
The spirit of lovely life is fading — 

And she must die ! 


I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : — if 't was not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied. 
She did inherit. 


Why looks the lover wroth— the friend up- 




braiding ? 
Reply, reply ! 


Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 


Hath she not dwelt too long 
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong? 

Then why not die? 
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, 

And hopeless lie ? 
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-mor- 
row? 


But she was trained in IS'ature's school — 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind — 
Ye could not Hester. 


Reply, reply ! 




Death ! Take her to thine arms. 
In all her stainless charms ! 

And with her fly 
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in bright- 


My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore ! 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning. 


ness. 

The angels lie ! 

Wilt bear her there, Death! in all her 

whiteness? 

Reply, reply 1 

Baery Coenwall. 


When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day — 
A bliss that would not go away — 
A sweet fore- warning? 

Ghaeles Lamb 





602 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



LTCIDAS. 

Yet once more, ye Laurels, and once more 

Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 

And with forced fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing 

year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 
Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
"Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, Sisters of the Sacred Well, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 

spring. 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn, 
And as he passes turn, 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ; 
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and 

rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appear- 
ed 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the gray -fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of 

night. 
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 
Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his 

westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mate. 
Tempered to the oaten flute ; 
Eough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven 

heel 
From the glad song would not be absent long, 
And old Damaetas loved to hear our song. 
But the heavy change, now thou art 

gone — 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert 

caves, 



With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er 

grown, 
And all their echoes, mourn ; 
The willows, and the hazel copses green. 
Shall now no more be seen. 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose. 
Or taint-worm to the weanhng herds that 

graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe 

wear. 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
Where were ye, ]!Tymphs, when the re- 
morseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep. 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, 

he, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard 

stream — 
Ay me ! I fondly dream, 
Had ye been there ; for what could that have 

done? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus 

bore. 
The Muse herself for her enchanting son. 
Whom universal Nature did lament, 
When, by the rout that made the hideous 

roar. 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade. 
And strictly meditate the thankless muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair ? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 

raise 
(That last infirmity of noble minds) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred 

shears. 
And slits the thin-spun life. But not the 

praise, 
Phcebus replied, and touched my trembling 



LYCIDAS. 



503 



Fame is no plant tliat grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies ; 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed. 
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored 

flood, 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal 

reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea ; 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon 

winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle 

swain? 
And questioned every gust of rugged winds 
That blows from off each beaked promontory ; 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon 

strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses 

dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing 

slow, 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge. 
Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with 

woe. 
Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest 

pledge ? 
Last came, and last did go. 
The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden ope-s, the iron shuts amain) ; 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swain. 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ? 
Of other care they little reckoning make, 
Thau how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 



Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know 
how to hold 

A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the 
least 

That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! 

"What recks it them ? what need they ? they 
are sped ; 

And when they list, their lean and flashy 
songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched 
straw ; 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 

But, swollen with wind and the rank mist 
they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 

But that two-handed engine at the door, 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 
more. 
Eeturn, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 

That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian 
Muse, 

And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 

Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 

Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 
brooks. 

On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely 
looks. 

Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the honied show- 
ers. 

And purple aU the ground with vernal flow- 
ers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freaked vsdth 
jet, 

The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose, and the weU-attired wood- 
bine. 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 
head. 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. 

And daffodillies flU then* cups with tears. 

To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- 
mise. 



604 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Ay me ! whilst tliee the sliores and sounding 

seas 
TTash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 
Where the great vision of the guarded mount 
Looks towards isTamancos and Bayona's hold ; 
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with 

ruth! 
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! 
Weep no more, woeful Shepherds, weep no 

more ! 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead. 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled 

ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
Through the dear might of Him that walked 

the waves, 
Where, other groves and other streams along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
Li the blest kingdoms meek of Joy and Love. 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore. 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks 

and rills. 
While the stiU morn went out with sandals 

gray; 
He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. ' 
And now the sun had stretched out all the 

hiUs, 
And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

John Milton. 
• 



ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW 
HENDEESON, 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The muckle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He 's gane ! he 's gane ! he 's frae us torn. 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye clifis, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where Echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'Uy shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye bm*nies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' todlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn. 

Mourn, little harebells owre the lea; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flowers ! 

At dawn, when every grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at his head. 

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed 

I' th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade. 

Come, join my wail! 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He 's gane for ever ! 



A FUNERAL HYMN. 



505 



Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circhng the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmu'e reels, 

Eair for his sake ! 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' .day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ! 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Erae our cauld shore. 
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r. 

Sets up her horn, 
"Wail through the weary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my cantie strains; 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow ! 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! 
nk cowslip cup shall kep a tear ; 
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up his head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear. 

For him that 's dead ! 

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we 've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkhng starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he 's taen his flight, 

l^Te'er to retm-n. 

Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 



And hast thou crossed that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I flnd another, 
. The world around ? 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I '11 wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

EOBEET BtTENS. 



A FUKERAL HYMN. 

Ye midnight shades, o'er Nature spread ! 

Dumb silence of the dreary hour ! 
In honor of th' approaching dead. 
Around your awful terrors pour. 

Yes, pour around. 

On this pale ground, 
Through all this deep surrounding gloom, 

The sober thought. 

The tear untaught. 
Those meetest mourners at a tomb. 

Lo ! as the surpliced train draw near 

To this last mansion of mankind. 
The slow sad bell, the sable bier. 
In holy musings wrap the mind ! 

And while their beam. 

With trembling stream. 
Attending tapers faintly dart, 

Each mouldering bone, 

Each sculptured stone, 
Strikes mute instruction to the heart ! 

Now, let the sacred organ blow. 
With solemn pause, and sounding slow : 
Now, let the voice due measure keep. 
In strains that sigh, and words that weep : 
Till aU the vocal current blended roll. 
Not to depress, but lift the soaring soul — 

To lift it to the Maker's praise. 

Who first informed our frame with breath ; 
And, after some few stormy days, 

Now, gracious, gives us o'er to death. 



606 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


No king of fears 




In him appears, 


COKONACH. 


"VTlio shuts the scene of human woes : 




Beneath his shade 


He is gone on the mountain, 


Securely laid, 
The dead alone find true repose. 


He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 




When our need was the sorest. 


Then, while we mingle dust with dust, 


The font re-appearing 


To One, supremely good and wise. 


From the rain-drops shall borrow ; 


Eaise hallelujahs ! God is just, 


But to us comes no cheering. 


And man most happy when he dies ! 


To Duncan no morrow ! 


His winter past, 


The hand of the reaper 


Fair spring at last 


Takes the ears that are hoary, 


Keceives him on her flowery shore ; 


But the voice of the weeper 


Where pleasure's rose 


Wails manhood in glory. 


Immortal blows. 


The Autumn winds rushing, 


And sin and sorrow are no more ! 


Waft the leaves that are searest, 


David Mallett. 


But our flower was in flushing. 




When blighting was nearest. 
Fleet foot on the correi. 






Sage counsel in cumber. 




Eed hand in the foray, 


0! SNATCHED AWAY IN BF. A UTY'S 
BLOOM. 


How sound is thy slumber ! 


T/ike the dew on the mountain, 




Like the foam on the river. 


! sxATCHED away in beauty's bloom. 


T/ike the bubble on the fountain, 


On thee shaU press no ponderous tomb ; 


Thou art gone, and for ever. 


But on thy turf shall roses rear 


Sib "Waltee Scott. 


Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 




And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 


^ 




And oft by yon blue gushing stream 


0! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 


Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 




And feed deep thought with many a dream. 


! breathe not his name ! let it sleep in the 


And lingering pause and lightly tread — 


shade. 


Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the 


Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid ; 


dead. 


Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed. 




As the night dew that faUs on the grave o'er 


Away ! we know that tears are vain. 


his head. 


That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 




Will this unteach us to complain? 


But the night dew that falls, though in silence 


Or make one mourner weep the less ? 


it weeps. 


And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 


Shall brighten with verdure the grave where 


Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 


he sleeps ; 


LoED Byeon. 


And the tear that we shed, though in secret 

it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our 

souls. 








Thomas Mooek. 

1 



THE DIRGE 


OF IMOGEN. 507 


A "DTRfrE 


VI. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine. 


Jljl X^XXWAJ-i* 


The frail bluebell peereth over 


I. 


Rare broid'ry of the purple clover. 


Let them rave. 


Fow is done thy long day's work ; 


Kings have no such couch as thine, 


Fold thy palms across thy breast — 


As the green that folds thy grave. 


Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 


Let them rave. 


Let them rave. 




Shadows of the silver birk 


vn. 


Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 


Wild words wander here and there ; 


Let them rave. 


God's great gift of speech abused 




Makes thy memory confused — 


II. 


But let them rave. 




The balm-cricket carols clear 


Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 


In the green that folds thy grave. 


Nothing but the small cold worm 


Let them rave. 


Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 


Alfeed Tennyson. 


Let them rave. 




Light and shadow ever wander 




# 


O'er the green that folds thy grave. 




Let them rave. 


THK DIRGE OF BIOGEK 


m. 


Feae no more the heat o' the sun, 




Nor the furious Wmter's rages ; 


Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 


Thou thy worldly task hast done. 


Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 


Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 
Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 


From the green that folds thy grave. 


Fear no more the frown o' the great — 


Let them rave. 


Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 




Care no more to clothe and eat ; 


IV. 


To thee the reed is as the oak. 


Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 


The sceptre, learning, physic, must 


The woodbine and eglatere 


All follow this, and come to dust. 


Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 




Let them rave. 


Fear no more the lightning-flash. 


Eain makes music in the tree 


Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 


O'er the green that folds thy grave. 


Fear not slander, censure rash ; 


Let them rave. 


Thou hast finished joy and moan : 




All lovers young, all lovers must 


V. 


Consign to thee, and come to dust. 


Round thee blow, self-pleached deep 


No exorciser harm thee ! 


Bramble roses, faint and pale, 


Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 


And long pm-ples of the dale. 


Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 


Let them rave. 


Nothing ill come near thee ! 


These in every shower creep 


Quiet consummation have ; 


Through the green that folds thy grave. 


And renowned be thy grave ! 


Let them rave. 


Shakespeaeb. 



508 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

SUXG BY THE YIEGIXS. 

O THOF, the wonder of all dayes I 
O paragon, and pearl of praise ! 
virgin-martyr, ever blest 

Above the rest 
Of all the maiden traine ! We come, 
And bring fresh strewings to thy tombe. 

Thus, thus, and thus we compasse round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground ; 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodill, 
And other flowers, lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Thou, wonder of all maids, rest here — 
Of daughters all, the deerest deere ; 
The eye of virgins ; nay, the queen 

Of this smooth green, 
And all sweet meades from whence we get 
The primrose and the violet. 

Too soone, too deere, did Jephthah buy, 

By thy sad losse, our liberty ; 

His was the bond and cov'nant, yet 

Thou paid'st the debt ; 
Lamented maid I he won the day, 
But for the conquest thou didst pay. 

Thy father brought with him along 
The olive branch, and victor's song ; 
He slew the Ammonites we know — 

But to thy woe ; 
And in the purchase of our peace 
The cure was worse than the disease. 

For which obedient zeale of thine 
We offer here, before thy shrine, 
Our sighs for storax, teares for wine ; 

And, to make fine 
And fresh thy herse-cloth, we will here 
Four times bestrew thee every yeere. 

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears ; 
Receive this offering of our haires ; 
Receive these christall vials, filled 
With tears distilled 



From teeming eyes ; to these we bring, 
Each maid, her silver filleting. 

To guild thy tombe ; besides, these caules, 
These laces, ribbands, and these faules — 
These veiles, wherewith we use to hide 

The bashfuU bride. 
When we conduct her to her groome ; 
All, all we lay upon thy tombe. 

ISTo more, no more, since thou art dead, 
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed ; 
No more, at yeerly festivalls, 

We cowslip balls. 
Or chaines of columbines, shall make 
For this or that occasion's sake. 

No, no ! our maiden pleasures be 
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee ; 
'T is we are dead, though not 1' th' grave ; 

Or if we have 
One seed of life left, 't is to keep 
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 
And make this place all paradise ; 
May sweets grow here, and smoke from 
hence 

Fat frankincense ; 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ; 

No boysterous winds or storms come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ; but, like a Spring, 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

May all shie maids, at wonted hours. 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ; 
May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ; then return^ 
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 

EOBEBT HeBBICE. 



DIRGE. 



509 



DIRGE. 

" DIG- a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where I and my true love may sleep ! " 
W6''U dig a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where tJiou and thy true love shall sleep ! 

"And let it be five fathom low, 
"Where winter winds may never blow ! " 
And it shall he five fathoms low, 
Where winter winds shall never How I 

"And let it be on yonder hill. 
Where grows the mountain daffodil ! " 
And it shall de on yonder hill, 
Where grows the mountain daffodil/ 

"And plant it round with holy briers. 

To fright away the fairy fires ! " 

We^ll plant it round with holy driers, 
To fright away the fairy fires ! 

"And set it round with celandine, 
And nodding heads of columbine ! " 
We HI set it round with celandine, 
And nodding heads of columbine f 

"And let the ruddock buHd his nest 
Just above my true love's breast ! " — 
The ruddocTc he shall build his nest 
Just above thy true love's breast I — 

"And warble his sweet wintry song 
O'er our dwelling all day long ! " 
AndJ he shall warble his sweet song 
Cfer your dwelling all day long, 

" Now, tender friends, my garments take. 
And lay me out for Jesus' sake ! " 
And we will now thy garments taJce, 
And lay thee out for Jesus' saTce I 

"And lay me by my true love's side. 
That I may be a faithful bride ! " 
WeHl lay thee by thy true love's side. 
That thou may''st be a faithful bride ! 

" When I am dead, and buried be. 
Pray to God in heaven for me ! " 
Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee, 
And pray to God in heaven for thee! 
Benediciie ! 
William Staj^ley Eosooe. 



DIRGE m OYMBELINE, 



SUNG BT GUIDEKUS AND AEVIEAGUS OVER 
FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 

And rifle all the breathing Spring. 



No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen- - 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green. 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 
Shall kindly lend his little aid. 

With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell. 

Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. 
The tender thought on thee shall dwell, 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
For thee the tear be duly shed ; 

Beloved till life can charm no more. 
And mourned till Pity's self be dead. 
William Collins. 



DIRGE. 



If thou wilt ease thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart — 

Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
And not a sorrow 
Hang any tear on your eyelashes ; 

Lie still and deep, 
Sad soul, until the sea- wave washes 
The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 
In eastern sky. 



610 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SOEROW. 


But wilt tliou cure thine heart 




Of love, and all its smart — 


DIRGE. 


Then die, dear, die I 




'T is deeper, sweeter, 


I. 


Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming 


Softly ! 


With folded eye ; 


She is lying 


And then alone, amid the beaming 


With her lips apart. 


Of Love's stars, thou 'It meet her 


Softly! 


In eastern skj. 


She is dying of a broken heart. 


Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 




' 


II. 

Whisper! 






She is going 


BKIDAT. SONG AKD DIRGE. 


To her final rest. 
Whisper! 
Life is growing 




A OTPEEss-BOTJGH and a rose-wreath sweet, 


Dim within her breast. 


A wedding-robe and a winding-sheet, 




A bridal-bed and a bier ! 


ni. 


Thine be the kisses, maid. 


Gently! 
She is sleeping ; 
She has breathed her last. 


And smiling love's alarms ; 
And thou, pale youth, be laid 


In the grave's cold arms : 


Gently! 


Each in his own charms — 


Death and Hymen both are here. 
So up with scythe and torch, 


While you are weeping. 
She to Heaven has past ! 

Chables G-. Eastman. 


And to the old church porch, 




While all the bells ring clear ; 
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom. 






And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 


DIRGE FOR A YOUl^G GIRL. 


Now tremble dimples on your cheek — 
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak, 
For he who kisses is near : 


Undeeneath the sod low-lying, 

Dark and drear, 
Sleepeth one who left, in dying, 

Sorrow here. 


By her the bridegod fair. 


In youthful power and force ; 
By him the grizard bare, 
Pale knight on a pale horse. 
To woo him to a corse — 


Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her 

Eyes that weep ; 
Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, 


Death and Hymen both are here. 


YigUs keep. 


So up with scythe and torch. 


When the summer moon is shining 


And to the old church porch. 


Soft and fair. 


While all the bells ring clear ; 


Friends she loved in tears are twining 


And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom. 


Chaplets there. 


And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 




Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 


Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, 




Throned above — 




Souls like thine with God inherit 




Life and love ! 




James T. Fields. 



THE PHANTOM. 



511 



A BRIDAL DIRGE. 

Weave no more the marriage chain ! 

All unmated is the lover ; 
Death has ta'en the place of Pain ; 
Love doth call on love in vain ; 

Life and years of hope are over ! 

No more want of marriage hell ! 

No more need of bridal favor ! 
Where is she to wear them weU ? 
You beside the lover, tell ! 

Gone — with all the love he gave her I 

Paler than the stone she lies — 
Colder than the winter's morning ! 

Wherefore did she thus despise 

(She with pity in her eyes) 
Mother's care, and lover's warning ? 

Youth and beauty — shall they not 
Last beyond a brief to-morrow ? 

Ko — a prayer and then forgot ! 

This the truest lover's lot, 
This the sum of human sorrow! 

Bakey Coenwali,. 



DIRGE. 



Wheee shall we make her grave ? 
0, where the wild-flowers wave 

In the free air ! 
When shower and singing bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard- 

There — lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her — 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill ; 
Low on sweet Nature's breast 
Let the meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 

Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed, 
Where, on a gentle head, 

Storms beat no more I 



What though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, 

Plays the soft wind ? 
Yet still, from where she lies. 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew, 
Thence, in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 

O, then, where wild-flowers wave, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air I 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There, lay her there ! 

Felicia Hbmans. 



THE PHANTOM. 

AaAiN I sit within the mansion, 

In the old, familiar seat ; 
And shade and sunshine chase each other 

O'er the carpet at my feet. 

But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled 
upwards 

In the summers that are past. 
And the willow trails its branches lower 

Than when I saw them last. 

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
From out the haunted room — 

To fill the house, that once was joyful. 
With silence and with gloom. 

And many kind, remembered faces 

Within the doorway come — 
Yoices, that wake the sweeter music 

Of one that now is dumb. 

They sing, in tones as glad as ever. 

The songs she loved to hear ; 
They braid the rose in summer garlands. 

Whose flowers to her were dear. 



512 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And still, her footsteps in the passage, 

Her blushes at the door, 
Her timid words of maiden welcome, 

Come back to me once more. 

And all forgetful of my sorrow, 

Unmindful of my pain, 
I think she has but newly left me. 

And soon will come again. 

She stays without, perchance, a moment. 
To dress her dark-brown hair ; 

I hear the rustle of her garments — 
Her light step on the stair ! 

0, fluttering heart ! control thy tumult. 

Lest eyes profane should see 
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 

Her coming brings to me ! 

She tarries long : but lo ! a whisper 

Beyond the open door — 
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 

A shadow on the floor ! 

Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me. 
The vine whose shadow strays ; 

And my patient heart must still await her, 
'Not chide her long delays. 

But my heart grows sick with weary wait- 
ing, 
As many a time before : 
Her foot is ever at the threshold. 

Yet never passes o'er. 

Bayaed Tatlob. 



EPITAPH ON" ELIZABETH L. H. 

Would'st thou heare what man can say 

In a little ? — reader, stay ! 

Underneath this stone doth lye 

As much beauty as could dye ; 

Which in life did harbor give 

To more vertue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault. 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One name was Elizabeth — 

Th' other, let it sleep with death : 

Eitter, where it dyed to tell. 

Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 

Ben Jonson. 



.ICHABOD. 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

For evermore ! 

Eevile him not — the Tempter hath 

A snare for aU ! 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his faU! 

! dumb be passion's stormy rage. 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led hia age, 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! Would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven, 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark. 

From hope and Heaven ? 

Let not the land, once proud of him. 

Insult him now ; 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead. 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, nought 

Save power remains — 
A fallen angel's pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 

John Geeenleap Whittiek. 



ON THE FUNEEAL OF CHARLES .THE FIRST. 



5V4 



THE LOST LEADER. 



Just for a handful of silver tie left ns ; 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out 
silver, 
So much was theirs who so little allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 
Eags — were they purple, his heart had been 
proud ! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, hon- 
ored him, 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his clear 
accents, 
Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us, 
Bm*ns, Shelley, were with us — ^they watch 
from their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the free- 
men ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 



n. 

"We shall march prospering — not through his 
presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us — ^not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts his 
quiescence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade 
aspire. 
Blot out his name, then — ^record one lost soul 
more. 
One task more declined, one more footpath 
untrod. 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for 
angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more insult 
to God! 
Life's night begins ; let him never come back 
to us! 
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — ^the glimmer of 
twilight, 
Never glad, confident morning again ! 
33 



Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike 
gallantly. 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his 
own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and 
wait us. 
Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the 
throne ! 

EOBEET BeOWNING. 



ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES 
THE FIRST, 

AT OTGHT m ST. GEOEGE's OHAPEL, WESTDSOE. 

The castle clock had toUed midnight. 

With mattock and with spade — 
And silent, by the torches' light — 

His corse in earth we laid. 

The coffin bore his name ; that those 

Of other years might know. 
When earth its secrets should disclose. 

Whose bones were laid below. 

" Peace to the dead ! " no children sung, 

Slow pacing up the nave ; 
No prayers were read, no knell was rung. 

As deep we dug his grave. 

We only heard the winter's wind. 

In many a sullen gust. 
As o'er the open grave inclined. 

We murmured, "Dust to dust ! " 

A moonbeam from the arch's height 
Streamed, as we placed the stone 

The long aisles started into light. 
And all the windows shone. 

We thought we saw the banners then 

That shook along the walls. 
Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 

Were gazing on the stalls. 

'T is gone ! — Again on tombs defaced 
Sits darkness more profound ; 

And only by the torch we traced 
The shadows on the ground. 



614 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And now the chilling, freezing air 
Without blew long and loud ; 

Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, 
Where he slept in his shroud. 



We laid the broken marble floor, — 

No name, no trace appears ! 
And when we closed the sounding door. 

We thought of him with tears. 

"William Lisle Bowles. 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sod with our bayonets turning. 

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast^ 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him ! 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 
dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hoUowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
his head. 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 

But little he '11 reck if they let him sleep on, 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retir- 
ing; 

And we knew by the distant random gun, 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone in his glory. 

Chableb Wolfe. 



ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE 
THIRD. 

WEITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE. 

I SAW him last on this terrace proud, 
Walking in health and gladness. 

Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green — 
Blithely the birds were singing ; 

The cymbals replied to the tambourine, 
And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 
When not a word was spoken— 

When every eye was dim with a tear. 
And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 
To the muffled drums, deep roUing, 

While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar, 
Drowned the death-bells' tolling. 

The time — since he walked in his glory thus, 
To the grave tiU I saw him carried — 

Was an age of the mightiest change to us. 
But to him a night unvaried. 



And a son's sole child, have perished ; 

And sad was each heart, save only the one 

By which they were fondest cherished ; 

For his eyes were sealed and his mind was 
dark. 

And he sat in his age's lateness — 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness ; 

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread 

Unvexed by life's commotion, 
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 

On the calm of a frozen ocean. 



J 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 



516 



And now they roared, at drum-1 
their stations 
* On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning saluta- 
tions. 
That all was well! 

And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Eeplied the distant forts — 
As if to summon from his sleep the "Warden 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of 
azure, 
No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black forts' embra- 
zure. 
Awaken with their call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast. 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field-marshal 

Be seen upon his post! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall has scaled ! 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper — 

The dark and silent room ; 
And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley, or dissemble, 
But smote the Warden hoar — 

Ah! what a blow! — ^that made all England 
tremble 
And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited. 
The sun rose bright o'erhead — 

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
That a great man was dead ! 

Heney Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



Still o'er him Oblivion's waters lay, 
Though the stream of life kept flowing ; 

When they spoke of our king, 't was but to 
say 
The old man's strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

By weakness rent asunder, 
A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, 

To the people's pity and wonder. 

He is gone at length— he is laid in the dust, 
Death's hand his slumbers breaking ; 

For the coffined sleep of the good and just 
Is a sure and blissful waking. 

His people's heart is his funeral urn ; 

And should sculptured stone be denied him, 
There will his name be found, when in turn 

We lay our heads beside him. 

HoEACE Smith. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 

A MIST was driving down the British chan- 
nel; 
The day was just begun ; 
And through the window-panes, on floor and 



Streamed the red Autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pen- 
non. 
And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black 
cannon 
Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and 
Dover, 

Were all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
Their cannon, through the night. 

Holding their breath, had watched in grim 
defiance 
The sea-coast opposite. 



-beat, from 



616 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




Freed one I there 's a wail for thee this hour 


STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 


Through thy loved Elves' dominions ; 


THOMAS HOOD. 


Hushed is each tiny trumpet-flower, 




And droopeth Ariel's pinions ; 


I. 


Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing, 


Take back into thy bosom, Earth, 


To plan, with fond endeavor. 


This joyous, May-eyed morrow, 


What pretty buds and dews shall keep 


The gentlest child that ever Mirth 


Thy piUow bright for ever. 


Gave to be reared by Sorrow ! 




'T is hard — while rays half green, half gold, 


v. 


Through vernal bowers are burning. 


And higher, if less happy, tribes— 


And streams their diamond-mirrors hold 


The race of early childhood— 


To Summer's face returning — 


ShaU miss thy whims of frolic wit, 


To say we 're thankful that his sleep 


That in the summer wild- wood. 


Shall never more be lighter, 


Or by the Christmas hearth, were hailed. 


In whose sweet-tongued companionship 


And hoarded as a treasure 


Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! 


Of undecaying merriment 




And ever-changing pleasure. 


11. 


Things from thy lavish humor flung 


But all the more intensely true 


Profuse as scents, are flying 


His soul gave out each feature 


This kindling morn, when blooms are born 


Of elemental love — each hue 


As fast as blooms are dying. 


And grace of golden ISTature — 




The deeper still beneath it all 


VI. 


Lurked the keen jags of anguish ; 


Sublimer Art owned thy control- 


The more the laurels clasped his brow 


The minstrel's mightiest magic, 


Their poison made it languish. 


With sadness to subdue the soul, 


Seemed it that like the nightingale 


Or thrill it with the tragic. 


Of his own mournful singing, 


Now listening Aram's fearful dream. 


The tenderer would his song prevail 


We see beueath the willow 


While most the thorn was stinging. 


That dreadful Thing, or watch him steal. 


ni. 


Guilt-lighted, to his pillow. 


So never to the desert-worn 
Did fount bring freshness deeper, 

Than that his placid rest this morn 
Has brought the shrouded sleeper. 


Now with thee roaming ancient groves, 
We watch the woodman felling 

The funeral elm, while through its boughs 
The ghostly wind comes knelling. 


That rest may lap his weary head 




Where charnels choke the city. 


vn. 


Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed 


Dear worshipper of Dian's face 


The wren shall wake its ditty; 


In sohtary places. 


But near or far, while evening's star 


Shalt thou no more steal, as of yore. 


Is dear to hearts regretting, 


To meet her white embraces ? 


Around that spot admiring Thought 


Is there no purple in the rose 


Shall hover, unforgetting. 


Henceforward to thy senses ? 




For thee have dawn and daylight's close 


IV. 


Lost their sweet influences ? 


And if this sentient, seething world 


No ! — by the mental night untamed 


Is, after all, ideal. 


Thou took'st to Death's dark portal, 


Or in the Immaterial furled 


The joy of the wide universe 


Alone resides the real. 


Is now to thee immortal ! 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 



olY 



How fierce contrasts the city's roar 

With thy new-conquered quiet! — 
This stunning hell of wheels that pour 

With princes to their riot ! 
Loud clash the crowds — the busy clouds 

With thunder-noise are shaken, 
While pale, and mute, and cold, afar 

Thou liest, men-forsaken. 
Hot life reeks on, nor recks that one 

— The playful, human-hearted — 

Who lent its clay less earthiness, 

Is just from earth departed. 

B. Simmons. 



WHEN" I BENEATH THE COLD, EED 
EAETH AM SLEEPIN"G. 

When I beneath the cold, red earth am sleep- 
ing, 

Life's fever o'er, 
WiU there for me be any bright eye weeping 

That I 'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 

Of heretofore ? 



When the great winds, through leafless for- 
ests rushing. 

Like full hearts break — 
When the swoU'n streams, o'er crag and gully 
gushing. 

Sad music make — 
Will there be one, whose heart Despair is 
crushing, 

Mourn for my sake ? 

When the bright sun upon that spot is shin- 
ing 

With purest ray. 
And the small flowers, their buds and blos- 
soms twining. 

Burst through that clay — 
Will there be one still on that spot repining 
Lost hopes all day ? 

When the Night shadows, with the ample 
sweeping 

Of her dark paU, 



The world and all its manifold creation sleep- 
ing— 

The great and small — 
Will there be one, even at that dread hour, 
weeping 

For me — for all ? 

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory 

On that low mound, 
And wintry storms have with their ruins 
hoary 

Its loneness crowned. 
Will there be then one versed in Misery's 
story 

Pacing it round ? 

It may be so — but this is selfish sorrow 

To ask such meed — 
A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow 

From hearts that bleed 
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 

Shall never need. 

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling. 

Thou gentle heart ! 
And, though thy bosom should with grief be 
swelling. 

Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain — for Time hath long been 
kneUing — 

Sad one, depart ! 

William Motheewell. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies — 

The Poet of the Poor. 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail. 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother every where ! 

And is thy brother blamed ? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care. 

He no exemption claimed. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 



518 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


He feared to scorn or hate ; 




But, honoring in a peasant's form 


A LAMENT. 


The equal of the great, 




He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes 


Swifter far than Summer's flight. 


The poor man's little, more ; 


Swifter far than youth's delight. 


Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 


Swifter far than happy night, 


From plundered Labor's store. 


Art thou come and gone ; 


A hand to do, a head to plan, 


As the earth when leaves are dead, 


A heart to feel and dare — 


As the night when sleep is sped, 


Tell Man's worst foes, here lies the man 


As the heart when joy is fled. 


Who drew them as they are. 


I am left lone, alone. 


Ebenezee Elliott. 


The swallow Summer comes again ; 




The owlet Night resumes her reign ; 


^ 


But the wild swan Youth is fain 
To fly with \hee^ false as thou. 






My heart each day desires the morrow ; 


SOLITUDE. 


Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ; 




Vainly would ray Winter borrow 


It is not that my lot is low 


Sunny leaves from any bough : 


That makes this silent tear to flow ; 




It is not grief that bids me moan ; 


Lilies for a bridal bed, 


It is that I am aU alone. 


Koses for a matron's head. 




Violets for a maiden dead — 




Pansies let my flowers be ; 


In woods and glens I love to roam. 


On the living grave I bear, 


When the tired hedger hies him home ; 


Scatter them without a tear ; 


Or by the woodland pool to rest. 


Let no friend, however dear. 


When pale the star looks on its breast. 


Waste one hope, one fear for me. 




Peecy Bysshe Shelley. 


Yet when the silent evening sighs 
With hallowed airs and symphonies, 






My spirit takes another tone, 


"CALM IS THE NIGHT." 


And sighs that it is all alone. 






Calm is the night, and the city is sleeping — 


The Autumn leaf is sere and dead — 


Once in this house dwelt a lady fair. 


It floats upon the water's bed : 


Long, long ago, she left it, weeping ; 


Jr 1 

I would not be a leaf, to die 


But still the old house is standing there. 


Without recording Sorrow's sigh ! 


Yonder a man at the heavens is staring. 




Wringing his hands as in sorrowful case ; 


The woods and winds, with sullen wail, 


He turns to the moonlight, his countenance 


Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 


baring — 


I 've none to smile when I am free, 


0, heaven! he shows me my own sad face! 


And when I sigh to sigh with me. 






Shadowy form, with my own agreeing ! 




Why mockest thou thus, in the moonlight 


Yet in my dreams a form I view, 


cold. 


That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 


The sorrows which here once vexed my being, 


I start, and when the vision 's flown, 


Many a night in the days of old ? 


I weep that I am all alone. 


Henry Heine (German). 


Henry Kieke "White. 


Translation of Charles G. Leland. 



THE FISHING SONG. 



519 



THE OASTLE BY THE SEA. 

'* Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That Castle by the Sea? 
Golden and red, above it 

The clouds float gorgeously. 

"And fain it would stoop downward 

To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow." 

"Well have I seen that castle, 

That Castle by the Sea — 
And the moon above it standing. 

And the mist rise solemnly." 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime ? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers. 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 

They rested quietly ; 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 

And tears came to mine eye." 

"And sawest thou on the turrets 
The king and his royal bride ? 

And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

"Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there — 
Kesplendent as the morning sun. 

Beaming with golden hair ? " 

""Well saw I the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe ; 

No maiden was by their side ! " 

LxjDwia Uhland (German). 
Translation of Henby W. Longfellow. 



DESOLATION. 

Thdtk ye the desolate must live apart. 

By solemn vows to convent-walls confined? 

Ah ! no ; with men may dwell the cloistered 
heart, 
And in a crowd the isolated mind. 



Tearless, behind the prison-bars of fate, 

The world sees not how desolate they stand. 
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate 

Upon the promised yet forbidden land — 
Patience the shrine to which their bleeding 
feet, 

Day after day, in voiceless penance turn ; 
Silence the holy cell and calm retreat 

In which unseen their meek devotions burn; 
Life is to them a vigil which none share. 
Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer. 
Hbney T. Tuokekman. 



THE FISHING SONG. 

Down in the wide, gray river 
The current is sweeping strong ; 

Over the wide, gray river 
Floats the fisherman's song. 

The oar-stroke times the singing, 
The song falls with the oar ; 

And an echo in both is ringing 
I thought to hear no more. 

Out of a deeper current 
The song brings back to me 

A cry from mortal silence 
Of mortal agony. 

Life that was spent and vanished, 
Love that had died of wrong. 

Hearts that are dead in living. 

Come back in the fisherman's song. 

I see the maples leafing. 

Just as they leafed before ; 
The green grass comes no greener 

Down to the very shore — 

With the rude strain swelling, sinking, 
In the cadence of days gone by, 

As the oar, from the water drinking, 
Kipples the mirrored sky. 

Yet the soul hath life diviner ; 

Its past returns no more, 
But in echoes, that answer the minor 

Of the boat-song, from the shore. 



520 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And the ways of God are darkness ; 

His judgment waitetli long ; 
He breaks the heart of a -woman 

With a fisherman's careless song. 

EosE Teeey. 



"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK." 

Beeak, break, break 

On thy cold gray stones, sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on. 

To the haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanished hand. 

And the sound of a voice that is stiU ! 

Break, break, break 

At the foot of thy crags, sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

WiU never come back to me. 

Altbed TBNirysoN. 



THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 

Teaes, idle tears ! I know not what they 
mean. 
Tears, from the depth of some divine despair. 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under- 
world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge: 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 
dawns 
The earhest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a ghmmering 

square : 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
Death in Life ! the days that are no more. 
Alfeed Tennyson. 



PART VIII. 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 



I KNOW more than Apollo ; 
For oft, when he lies sleeping, 

I behold the stars 

At mortal wars, 
And the rounded welkin weeping. 
The Moon embraces her shepherd ; 
And the Queen of Love her warrior ; 

While the first doth horn 

The stars of the morn, 
And the next the heavenly farrier. 

With a host of furious fancies, 
Whereof I am commander — 
With a burning spear, 
And a horse of air. 
To the wilderness I wander ; 
With a knight of ghosts and shadows, 
I summoned am to tourney, 
Ten leagues beyond 
The wide world's end — 
Methinks it is no journey ! 

ToMo' Bedlam. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



KING AETHIJK'S DEATH. 

On Trinitye Mondaye in the morne, 
This sore battayle was doom'd to be, 

Where manye a knighte cry'd, Well-awaye ! — 
Alacke, it was the more pittie. 

Ere the first crowinge of the cocke, 
When as the kinge in his bed laye, 

He thoughte Sir Gawaine to him came, 
And there to him these wordes did saye : 

" No we, as you are mine uncle deare, 
And as you prize your life, this daye 

O meet not with your foe in fighte ; 
Putt off the battayle, if yee maye ! 

"For Sir Launcelot is no we in Fraunce, 
And with him many an hardye knighte. 

Who will within this moneth be backe. 
And will assiste yee in the fighte." 

The kinge then called his nobles all. 
Before the breakinge of the daye, 

An d tolde them howe Sir Gawaine came, 
And there to him these wordes did saye. 

His nobles all this counsayle gave : 
That, earlye in the morning, hee 

Shold send awaye an herauld at armes, 
To aske a parley faire and free. 

Then twelve good knightes King Arthur chose, 
The best of all that with him were, 

To parley with the foe in field. 
And make with him agreement faire. 



The king he charged all his hoste 

In readinesse there for to bee ; 
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, 

Unlesse a sword drawne they shold see. 

And Mordred, on the other parte, 
Twelve of his knights did likewise bringe, 

The beste of all his companye, 
To holde the parley with the kinge. 

Sir Mordred alsoe charged his hoste 

In readinesse there for to bee ; 
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, 

But if a sworde drawne they shold see. 

For he durste not his uncle truste, 
Nor he his nephewe, sothe to teU ; 

Alacke ! it was a woefulle case. 
As ere in Ohristentye befelle. 

But when they were together mette, 
And both to faire accordance broughte. 

And a month's league betweene them sette. 
Before the battayle sholde be foughte, 

An addere crepte forthe of a bushe, 

Stunge one o' the king's knightes on the 
knee; 

Alacke ! it was a woefulle chance, 
As ever was in Ohristentie. 

When the knighte found him wounded sore, 
And sawe the wild-worme hanginge there, 

His sworde he from his scabberde drewe — 
A piteous case, as ye shall heare 



524 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


For when the two hostes sawe the sworde 
They joyned battayle instantlye ; 

Till of so manye noble knightes 

On one side there were left but three. 


"Alas !•" then sayd the noble king, 
" That I should live this sight to see ! — 

To see this good knight here be slaine. 
All for his love in helping mee ! " 


For all were slaine that durst abide, 
And but some fewe that fled awaye ; 

Ah mee ! it was a bloodye fielde, 
As ere was foughte on summer's daye. 


He put his speare into his reste. 
And to Sir Mordred loud gan crye : 

" Nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde ! 
For, traitor, nowe thy death is nye ! " 


Upon King Arthur's own partye 
Onlye himselfe escaped there, 

And Lukyn, Duke of Gloster, free — 
And the king's butler, Bedevere. 


Sir Mordred lifted up his sworde. 
And fierce to meet the king ran hee , 

The king his speare he through him thrust — 
A fathom thorow his bodie. 


And when the king beheld his knightes 
All dead and scattered on the molde. 

The teares fast trickled downe his face — 
That manlye face in fight so bolde. 


When Mordred felt the stroke of death, 
And found that he was wounded soe, 

He thruste himselfe upon the speare. 
And strucke the king a deadlye blowe. 


"Kowe reste yee all, brave knights," he 
said — 

" Soe true and faithful to your trust ! 
And must yee then, yee valiant hearts. 

Be lefte to moulder into dust ? 

" Most loyal have yee been to mee, 
Most true and faithful unto deathe ; 

And, ! to rayse yee up againe, 

How freelye could I yield my breathe I 


Then grimmlye dyed Sir Mordered, 

Presentlye apon that tree ; 
And bloody streames ranne from the kinge, 

Ere to the duke returned hee. 

Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake : 

"Sir knighte, thou hast been faithfulle 
tryde ; 
Nowe take my sword Excalibar, 

That hangs so freelye by my syde— 


"But see, the traitor 's yet alive ! 

Lo where hee stalkes among the deade I 
Nowe bitterlye he shall abye, 

And vengeance fall upon his head." 


" take my sworde Excalibar, 
And there into the river throwe ; . 

For here, henceforth, benethe this tree, 
All use of weapons I foregoe. 


" staye, my liege ! " then sayd the duke ; 

" staye for love and charitie ! 
Remember what the vision spake, 

Nor meete your foe, if it may bee." 


"And fare thee well, thou trustye sword! 

A better neer had valiant knighte ; 
With thee full ofte, and many a daye. 

Have I withstood my foe in fighte. 


" staye mee not, thou worthy e wight ! 

This debt my loyal knights I owe ; 
Betide me life, betide me death, 

I will avenge them of their foe." 


"With this good fauchion in my hande. 
Oft have I reapd the bloody feelde ; 

But nowe the fatalle houre is come, 
That never more I may thee weelde." 


Then straite he grasped his trusty speare. 
And on his horse then mounted hee • 

As his butler holpe him to his horse 
His bowels gushed to his knee. 


The duke to the river side he went, 

And there his owne sword in threwe he ; 

But he kept back Excalibar — 
He kept it back in privitie. 



THOMAS THE RHYMER. 



525 



For all of coleyne was the blade, 
And all the hilte of precious stone : 

"And ever alacke! " then sayd the knighte, 
"Must such a sword awaye be throwne? " 

Then backe he came unto the kinge, 

Who sayd, "Su- Lukyn, what did yee 
see?"— 

" Nothing, my liege, save that the winde 
Blewe oer the waters faire and free." 

" goe againe," then said the kinge, 
" good Syr Lukyn, goe againe ! 

Into the rivere throwe my sword, 
Nor keepe me lingering here in paine." 

The duke then to the river went. 
And the king's scabbard in threwe hee ; 

But hee kept backe Excalibar, ' 
And hid it undernethe a tree. 

Then backe he came to tell the kinge, 
Who sayde, " Sir Lukyn, sawe ye oughte ? " 

"Nothinge, my liege, save that the winde 
No we with the angry e waters fought." 

"0 Lukyn, Lukyn," said the kinge, 
"Twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye ! 

Alacke ! whom may wee ever truste, 
When suche a knighte soe false can bee ? 

"Saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead. 
All for a sword that wins thine eye ? 

Now goe againe, and throwe it in. 
Or here the one of us shall dye." 

The duke, all shent with this rebuke. 
No aunswere made unto the kinge ; 

But to the rivere tooke the sworde, 
And threwe it far as he coulde flinge. 

A hande and an arme did meete the sworde. 
And flourished three times in the air ; 

Then sunke benethe the renninge streme, 
And of the duke was seene noe mair. 

All sore astonied stood the duke — 
He stood as still as still mote bee ; 

Then hastend backe to tell the kinge — 
But he was gone from under the tree. 



But to what place he cold not tell. 
For never after hee did him see ; 

But hee sawe a barge goe from the land, 
And hee heard ladyes howle and crye. 

And whether the kinge were there or not, 
Hee never knewe, nor ever colde ; 

For from that sad and direfulle daye 
Hee never more was seene on molde. 

Anonymotts. 



THOMAS THE RHYMER. 

Tetje Thomas lay on Huntlie bank ; 

A ferlie he spied wi' his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright. 

Come riding down by the Eildon tree. 

Her shirt was o' the grass green silk. 
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ; 

At ilka tett of her horse's mane 
Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas he pulled aff his cap. 
And louted low down to his knee ; 

" All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 
For thy peer on earth I never did see." — 

" no, no, Thomas ! " she said, 
" That name does not belang to me ; 

I am but the Queen of fair Elfland, 
That am hither come to visit thee. 

" Harp and carp, Thomas ! " she said 
" Harp and carp along wi' me ! 

And if ye dare to kiss my lips. 
Sure of your bodie I will be." 

" Betide me weal, betide me woe. 
That weird shall never daunton me." — 

Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, 
All underneath the Eildon tree. 

"Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said — 
" True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 

And ye maun serve me seven years, 

Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." 



626 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



She mounted on her milk-white steed ; 

She's ta'en true Thomas up behind ; 
And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, 

The steed flew swifter than the wind. 

And they rade on, and farther on — 
The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 

Until they reached a desert wide, 
And living land was left behind. 

"Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, 
And lean your head upon my knee ! 

Abide and rest a little space, 
And I will shew you ferlies three. 

" see ye not yon narrow road, 
So thick beset with thorns and briers ? 

That is the path of righteousness. 
Though after it but few enquires. 

"And see ye not that braid, braid road, 
That lies across that lily leven ? 

That is the path of wickedness — 

Though some call it the road to heaven. 

"And see not ye that bonny road. 
That winds about the fernie brae ? 

That is the road to fair Elfland, 
"Where thou and I this night maun gae. 

"But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue. 

Whatever ye may hear or see ; 
For, if you speak word in Elfyn land, 

Ye'l] ne'er get back to your ain countrie." 

they rade on, and farther on, 

And they waded through rivers aboon the 
knee ; 
And they saw neither sun nor moon, 

But they heard the roaring of the sea. 

It was mirk, mirk night, and there was nae 
stern light, 
And they waded through red blude to the 
knee; 
For a' the blude that's shed on earth 

Rins through the springs o' that countrie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green. 
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree : 

" Take this for thy wages, true Thomas — 
It will give thee the tongue that can never 
lie." 



" My tongue is mine ain ; " true Thomas said ; 

" A gudely gift ye wad gie to me I 
I neither dought to buy nor sell, 

At fair or tryst where I may be. 

" I dought neither speak to prince or peer, 
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." — 

" ITow hold thy peace ! " the lady said, 
"For as I say, so must it be." — 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 

And till seven years were gane and past, 
True Thomas on earth was never seen. 

Anonymoxts. 



THE WEE WEE MAK 

As I was walking by my lane, 

Atween a water and a wa. 
There sune I spied a wee, wee man — 

He was the least that ere I saw. 

His legs were scant a shathmont's length, 
And sma and limber was his thie ; 

Between his een there was a span. 
Betwixt his shoulders there were ells three. 

He has tane up a meikle stane. 
And flang 't as far as I cold see ; 

Ein thouch I had been Wallace wicht, 
I dought na lift it to my knie. 

" wee, wee man, but ye be Strang ! 

Tell me whar may thy dwelling be ?" 
"I dwell beneth that bonnie bouir — 

will ye gae wi me and see ? " 

On we lap, and awa we rade. 

Till we cam to a bonny green ; 
We lichted syne to bait our steid, 

And out there cam a lady sheen — 

Wi four and twentie at her back, 
A comely cled in glistering green ; 

Thouch there the King of Scots had stude, 
The warst micht weil hae been his queen. 



THE MERRY PRANKS OF ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW. 



527 



On syne we past wi wondering cheir, 

Till we cam to a bonny ha ; 
The roof was o' the beaten gowd, 

The flure was o' the crystal a'. 

When we cam there, wi wee, wee knichts 
War ladies dancing, jimp and sma ; 

But in the twinkling of an eie 
Baith green and ha war clein awa. 

ANOimiotrs. 



THE MERRY PRANKS OF ROBIN 
GOOD-FELLOW 

Feom Oberon, in fairy land. 

The king of ghosts and shadowes there. 
Mad Robin, I, at his command, 
Am sent to view the night-sports here. 
What revell rout 
Is kept about 
In every corner where I go, 
I will o'ersee. 
And merrie be, 
And make good sport with ho, ho, ho ! 

More swift than lightning can I flye 

About the aery welkin soone. 
And in a minute's space descrye 
Each thing that 's done belowe the moone. 
There 's not a hag 
Or ghost shall wag, 
Or cry 'ware goblins ! where I go ; 
But Robin, I, 
Their feates will spy. 
And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! 

Whene'er such wanderers I meete. 

As from their night-sports they trudge home. 
With counterfeiting voice I greete. 
And call them on with me to roame. 
Thro' woods, thro' lakes. 
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes, 
Or else unseene, with them I go — 
All in the nicke, 
To play some tricke. 
And frolick it with ho, ho, ho ! 



Sometimes I meete them like a man — 

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; 
And to a horse I turn me can. 

To trip and trot about them round ; 
But, if to ride, 
My backe they stride. 
More swift than wind away I goe ; 
O'er hedge and lands. 
Thro' pools and ponds, 
I whirry, laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

When lads and lasses merry be. 

With possets, and with junkets fine, 
Unseene of all the company, 

I eat their cakes, and sip their wine ; 
And to make sport, 
I fume and snort. 
And out the candles I do blow. 
The maids I kiss ; 
They shrieke. Who's this? 
I answer nought but ho, ho, ho ! 

Yet now and then, the maids to please, 

At midnight I card up their wooU ; 
And while they sleepe and take their ease. 
With wheel to threads their flax I pull. 
I grind at miU 
Their malt up stiU ; 
I dress then* hemp, I spin their tow. 
If any wake. 
And would me take, 
I wend me laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

When house or hearth doth sluttish lye, 

I pinch the maidens black and blue ; 
The bedd-clothes from the bedd pull I, 
And in their ear I bawl too-whoo ! 
'Twixt sleepe and wake 
I do them take, 
And on the clay-cold floor them throw ; 
K out they cry. 
Then forth I fly. 
And loudly laugh out ho, ho, ho ! 

When any need to borrow ought. 

We lend them what they do require ; 
And for the use demand we nought — 
Our owne is all we do desire. 
If to repay 
They do delay, 



528 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Abroad amongst them then I go ; 

And night by night 

I them affright, 
"With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho ! 

When lazie queans have nought to do 

But study how to cog and lye, 
To make debate and mischLef too, 
'Twixt one another secretly, 
I marke their gloze, 
And it disclose 
To them whom they have wronged so. 
When I have done 
I get me gone. 
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 

When men do traps and engines set 

In loope holes, where the vermine creepe, 
Who from their foldes and houses get 
Their duckes and geese, and lambes and 
sheepe, 

I spy the gin, 
And enter in. 
And seeme a vermin taken so ; 
But when they there 
Approach me neare, 
I leap out laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

By wells and riUs, in meadowes green, 
We nightly dance our hey-day guise ; 
And to our fairye kinge and queene 

We chaunt our moon-lighte minstrelsies. 
When larkes gin singe 
Away we flinge. 
And babes new-born steale as we go ; 
And shoes in bed 
We leave instead, 
Ajid wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

From hag-bred Merlin's time have I 
Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; 
And, for my prankes, men call me by 
The name of Eobin Good-Fellow. 

Friends, ghosts, and sprites 
Who haunt the nightes, 
The hags and gobblins, do me know ; 
And beldames old 
My feates have told — 
So ^a?e, vale ! Ho, ho, ho ! 

Anonymous. 



THE FAIRY QUEEN. 

Come, follow, follow me — 
You, fairy elves that be. 
Which circle on the green — 
Come, follow Mab, your queen ! 
Hand in hand let 's dance around, 
For this place is fairy ground. 

When mortals are at rest, 

And snoring in their nest. 

Unheard and unespied, 

Through keyholes we do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves. 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And if the house be foul 
With platter, dish, or bowl. 
Up stairs we nimbly creep, 
Ajid find the sluts asleep ; 
There we pinch their arms and thighs- 
None escapes, nor none espies 

But if the house be swept. 
And from uncleanness kept, 
We praise the household maid. 
And duly she is paid ; 

For we use, before we go. 

To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a mushroom's head 
Our table cloth we spread ; 
A grain of rye or wheat 
Is manchet, which we eat ; 
Pearly drops of dew we drink. 
In acorn cups, filled to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snails. 
Between two cockles stewed. 
Is meat that 's easily chewed ; 
Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, 
Do make a dish that 's wondrous nice. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly. 

Serve us for our minstrelsy ; 

Grace said, we dance a while. 

And so the time beguile ; 
And if the moon doth hide her head, 
The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 



FAIRY SONG. 



529 



On tops of dewy grass 
So nimbly do we pass, 
The young and tender stalk 
Ke'er bends when we do walk ; 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 

AlIONTMOTrS. 



THE FAIEIES' SONG. 

We dance on hills above the wind, 
And leave our footsteps there behind ; 
Which shall to after ages last, 
When all our dancing days are past. 

Sometimes we dance upon the shore, 
To whistling winds and seas that roar ; 
Then we make the wind to blow. 
And set the seas a-dancing too. 

The thunder's noise is our delight, 
And lightnings make us day by night ; 
And in the air we dance on high, 
To the loud music of the sky. 

About the moon we make a ring. 
And falling stars we wanton fling, 
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy ; 
While what frights others is our joy. 

But when we 'd hunt away our cares, 
We boldly mount the galloping spheres ; 
And, riding so from east to west. 
We chase each nimble zodiac beast. 

Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds. 
With thick, black clouds to rest our heads. 
And flood the earth with our dark showers. 
That did but sprinkle these our bowers. 

Thus, having done with orbs and sky, 
Those mighty spaces vast and high. 
Then down we come and take the shapes. 
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes. 

Next, turned to mites in cheese, forsooth, 
We get into some hopow tooth ; 
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall. 
We frisk and dance, the devil and all. 
34 



Then we change our wily features 
Into yet far smaller creatures. 
And dance in joints of gouty toes. 
To painful tunes of groans and woes. 

Anonymous. 



SONG OF THE FAIEY. 

OvEB hill, over dale. 

Thorough bush, thorough brier. 
Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander every where. 
Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
And I serve the fairy queen. 
To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
In their gold coats spots you see : 
These be rubies, fairy favors — 
In those freckles live their savors. 
I must go seek some dewdrops here. 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
Shakespbaek 



FAIRY SONG. 

Shed no tear ! shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes ! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
Look up, look up ! I flutter now 
On this fresh pomegranate bough. 
See me ! 't is this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu ! 
I vanish in the heaven's blue — 

Adieu, adieu ! 

John Keats. 



630 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


SONG OF FAIRIES. 

We tlie fairies, blithe and antic, 
Of dimensions not gigantic, 
Though the moonshine mostly keep us, 
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 


V. 

I made a garland for her head. 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

She looked at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

VI. 


Stolen sweets are always sweeter ; 
Stolen kisses much completer ; 
Stolen looks are nice in chapels : 
Stolen, stolen be your apples. 


I set her on my pacing steed. 

And nothing else saw all day long ; 

For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A fairy song. 


When to bed the world are bobbing. 
Then 's the time for orchard-robbing ; 
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling 
Were it not for stealing, stealing. 

Thomas Eaitdolph. (Latin.) 
Translation of Leigh Hunt. 


VII. 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna dew ; 

And sure in language strange she said — 
"I love thee true." 

Vill. 




She took me to her elfin grot. 

And there she wept, and sighed full sore ; 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 

With kisses four. 


T.A BELLE T)A¥E SAT^TS MEROL 


A BALLAD. 


IX. 


I. 

WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 

Alone and palely loitering ? 
The sedge has withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 


And there she lulled me asleep ; 

And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dreamed 

On the cold hill's side. 

X. 


n. 
what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 

So haggard and so woe-begone ? 
The squirrel's granary is full. 

And the harvest 's done. 


I saw pale kings and princes too — 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried — " La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thraU ! " 

XI. 


m. 

I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and fever dew ; 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 

Fast withereth too. 


I saw their starved lips in the gloam. 
With horrid warning gaped wide ; 

And I awoke and found me here. 
On the cold hiU's side. 

xn. 


IV. 

1 met a lady in the mead^ 
Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light. 
And her eyes were wild. 


And this is why I sojourn here. 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is withered from the 
lake. 
And no birds sing. 

John Kratb. 



KILMEXY 



531 



KILMENY. 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 
Nor the rosy monk of the isie to see, 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
It was only to hear the Yorlin sing, ■ 
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 
The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry. 
And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree ; 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa'. 
And lang may she seek i' the green-wood 

shaw; 
Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 
And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 

When many a day had come and fled, 
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead. 
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung. 
When the bedes-man had prayed, and the 

dead-bell rung, 
Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, 
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain — 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ; 
When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme. 
Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came 

hame! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? 
Lang hae we sought both holt and den — 
By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree ; 
Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
That bonny snood of the birk sae gi-een ? 
And these roses, the fairest that ever was 

seen? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? " 

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace. 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was her ee. 
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea. 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where. 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not 
declare ; 



Kilmeny had been where the cock never 

crew, 
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never 

blew; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had 

rung. 
And the airs of heaven played round her 

tongue. 
When she spake of the lovely forms she had 

seen. 
And a land where sin had never been — 
A land of love, and a land of light, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night; 
Where the river swa'd a living stream, 
And the light a pure celestial beam : 
The land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

In yon green- wood there is a waik. 
And in that waik there is a wene. 

And in that wene there is a maike. 
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 
And down in yon green-wood he walks his 

lane. 

In that green wene, Kilmeny lay, 
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay ; 
But the air was soft, and the silence deep. 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee, 
TiU waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 

She 'wakened on a couch of the silk sae 
slim. 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings around were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer : 
"What spirit has brought this mortal here ! " 

"Lang have I journeyed the world wide," 
A meek and reverend fere replied ; 
"Baith night and day I have watched the 

fair 
Eident a thousand years and mair. 
Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree. 
Wherever blooms femenitye ; 
But sinless virgin, free of stain, 
In mind and body, fand I nane. 
Never, since the banquet of time. 
Found I a virgin in her prime. 



632 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Till late this bonny maiden I saw, 
As spotless as the morning snaw. 
Full twenty years she has lived as free 
As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye. 
I have brought her away frae the snares of 

men, 
That sin or death she may never ken." 

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair ; 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her 

hair; 
And round came many a blooming fere, 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here; 
Women are freed of the littand scorn ; 
0, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shaU the land of the spirits see, 
NTow shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
Many a lang year in sorrow and pain. 
Many a lang year through the world we Ve 

gane, 
Commissioned to watch fair womankind, 
For it 's they who nurice the immortal mind. 
We have watched their steps as the dawning 

shone, 
And deep in the green-wood walks alone ; 
By lily bower and silken bed 
The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep. 
Or left the couch of love to weep. 
We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time 

must come. 
And the angels will weep at the day of doom ! 

" 0, would the fairest of mortal kind 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind, 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
Who watch their ways with anxious ee, 
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 
O, sweet to heaven the maiden's prayer. 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
Ard dear to Heaven the words of truth 
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 
And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
The minds that kythe as the body fair ! 

" O, bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain. 
If ever you seek the world again — 
That world of sin, of sorrow and fear — 
O, tell of the joys that are waiting here; 
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, and the times that 
shaU be."— 



They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, 
And she walked in the light of a sunless day; 
The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 
That her youth and beauty never might fade ; 
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw 

her lie 
In the stream of life that wandered by. 
And she heard a song — she heard it sung. 
She kend not where ; but sae sweetly it rung, 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn — 
" ! blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shaU it ken, what a woman may be ! 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun — 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair ; 
And the angels shall miss them, travelling 

the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
When the sun and the world have dyed 

away, 
When the sinner has gane to his waesome 

doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom ! " — 



They bore her away, she wist not how. 
For she felt not arm nor rest below ; 
But so swift they wained her through the 

light, 
'T was like the motion of sound or sight ; 
They seemed to split the gales of air. 
And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 
Unnumbered groves below them grew ; 
They came, they past, and backward flew. 
Like floods of blossoms gliding on. 
In moment seen, in moment gone. 
O, never vales to mortal view 
Appeared like those o'er which they flew 
That land to human spirits given. 
The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 
From whence they can view the world below, 
And heaven's blue gates with sapphires 

glow — 
More glory yet unmeet to know. 



KILMENY. 



They bore her far to a mountain green, 
To see what mortal never had seen ; 
And they seated her high on a purple sward, 
And bade her heed what she saw and heard, 
And note the changes the spirits wrought ; 
For now she lived in the land of thought, — 
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies. 
But a crystal dome of a thousand dies ; 
She looked, and she saw*nae land aright, 
But an endless whirl of glory and light ; 
And radiant beings went and came, 
Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame ; 
She hid her een frae the dazzling view ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw a sun on a summer sky. 
And clouds of amber sailing by ; 
A lovely land beneath her lay, 
And that land had glens and mountains gray ; 
And that land had valleys and hoary piles. 
And marled seas, and a thousand isles ; 
Its fields were speckled, its forests green, 
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 
The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray, 
Which heaved and treiribled, and gently 

swung ; 
On every shore they seemed to be hung ; 
For there they were seen on their downward 

plain 
A thousand times and a thousand again ; 
In winding lake and placid firth — 
Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of 

earth. 

Kilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve. 
For she found her heart to that land did 

cleave ; 
She saw the corn wave on the vale ; 
She saw the deer run down the dale ; 
She saw the plaid and the broad claymore. 
And the brows that the badge of freedom 

bore ; 
And she thought she had seen the land be- 
fore. 

She saw a lady sit on a throne. 
The fairest that ever the sun shone on I 
A lion licked her hand of milk, 
And she held him in a leish of silk. 



And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee. 



With a silver wand and melting 

Her sovereign shield, till Love stole in, 

And poisoned all the fount within. 

Then a gruff, untoward bedes-man came. 
And hundit the lion on his dame ; 
And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless ee, 
She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; 
And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled. 
Till the bonniest flower of the world lay 

dead; 
A coffin was set on a distant plain. 
And she saw the red blood fall like rain. 
Then bonny Kilmeny's heart grew sair. 
And she turned away, and could look nae 

mair. 

Then the gruff, grim carle girn6d amain. 
And they trampled him down — but he rose 

again ; 
And he baited the lion to deeds of weir. 
Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom 

dear; 
And, weening his head was danger-preef 
When crowned with the rose and clover leaf, 
He growled at the carle, and chased him 

away 
To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. 
He growled at the carle, and he gecked at 

Heaven ; 
But his mark was set, and his arles given. 
Kilmeny a while her een withdrew ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw below her, fair unfurled. 
One half of all the glowing world, 
Where oceans rolled and rivers ran, 
To bound the aims of sinful man. 
She saw a people fierce and fell. 
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
There lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 
And she herked on her ravening crew. 
Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a 

blaze. 
And the thunder it roared o'er the lands and 

the seas. 
The widows they wailed, and the red blood 

ran. 
And she threatened an end to the race of 

man; 



634 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



She never lened, nor stood in awe, 
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
Oh ! then the eagle swinked for life, 
And brainzelled up a mortal strife ; 
But tiew she north, or flew she south. 
She met wi' the growl of the lion's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and waefu' maen. 
The eagle sought her eiry again ; 
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, 
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast, 
Before she sey another flight. 
To play wi' the norland lion's might. 

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, 
So far surpassing Nature's law, 
The singer's voice wad sink away, 
And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by. 
And all was love and harmony ; 
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, 
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
The friends she had left in her own countrye. 
To tell of the place where she had been. 
And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 
To warn the living maidens fair, 
The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care. 
That all whose minds unmeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when Time is gane. 

With distant music, soft and deep. 
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened, she lay her lane, 
All happed with flowers in the green-wood 

wene. 
When seven long years had come and fled ; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's 

name. 
Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny came hame ! 
And O, her beauty was fair to see. 
But still and steadfast was her ee ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare, 
For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
And the soft desire of maidens' een, 
In that mild face could never be seen. 
Her seymar was the lily flower. 
And her check the moss-rose in the shower ; 



And her voice like the distant melodye 
That floats along the twilight sea. 
But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 
And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 
Her holy hymns unheard to sing. 
To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 
But wherever her peaceful form appeared, 
The wild beasts of the hills were cheered ; 
The wolf played blithely round the field. 
The lordly byson lowed and kneeled ; 
The dun deer wooed with manner bland. 
And cowered aneath her lily hand. 
And when at even the woodlands rung, 
When hymns of other worlds she sung 
In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
O, then the glen was all in motion ! 
The wild beasts of the forest came. 
Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, 
And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 
And murmured and looked with anxious pain, 
For something the mystery to explain. 
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock. 
The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
The black-bird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 
The wolf and the kid their raike began ; 
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret 

ran; 
The hawk and the hern attour them hung, 
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their 

young; 
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : 
It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 



When a month and day had come and 
gane, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae green, 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But O, the words that fell from her mouth, 
Were words of wonder, and words of truth I 
But all the land were in fear and dread. 
For they kend na whether she was living or 

dead. 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna re- 
main ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
And returned to the land of thought again. 

James Hogg. 



THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW. 



535 



THE FAIRIES OF THE OALDON LOW. 

A MmSUMMEE LEGEND. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me ? " 

"I 've been to the top of the Oaldon Low, 
The midsummer-night to see ! " 

"And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Low ? " 
*'I saw the glad sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

"And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Oaldon hill? " 
" I heard the drops of the water made, 

And the ears of the green corn fill." 

" ! tell me all, my Mary — 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies, 

Last night on the Oaldon Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother ; 

And listen, mother of mine : 
A hundred fairies danced last night, 

And the harpers they were nine ; 

" And their harp-strings rung so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small ; 

But ! the words of their talking 
Were merrier far than all." 

"And what were the words, my Mary, 
That then you heard them say ? " 

" I '11 tell you all, my mother ; 
But let me have my way. 

" Some of them played with the water. 

And rolled it down the hill ; 
'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May ; 
And a busy man will the miller be 

At dawning of the day. 



" ' ! the miller, how he will laugh 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 

The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 
Till the tears fill both his eyes ! ' 

"And some they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn unto his mouth. 

And blew both loud and shrill; 

" ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds 
go 

Away from every horn ; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 

From the blind, old widow's corn. 

" ' ! the poor, blind widow, . 

Though she has been blind so long. 
She '11 be blithe enough when the mildew 's 
gone. 

And the corn stands tall and strong.' 

"And some they brought the brown lint- 



And flung it down from the Low ; 

'And this,' they said, 'by the sunrise, 

In the weaver's croft shall grow. 

" ' ! the poor, lame weaver. 

How will he laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 

All full of flowers by night ! ' 

" And then outspoke a brownie, 
With a long beard on his chin ; 

' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 
' And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I 've spun a piece of hempen cloth, 
And I want to spin another ; 

A little sheet for Mary's bed. 
And an apron for her mother.' 

"With that I could not help but laugh. 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Oaldon Low 
There was no one left but me. 

"And all on the top of the Oaldon Low 
The mists were cold and gray, 

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 
That round about me lay. 



536 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



" But, coming down from the hill-top, 

I heard afar below, 
How busy the jolly miller was, 

And how the wheel did go. 

" And I peeped into the widow's field, 
And, sure enough, were seen 

The yellow ears of the mildewed corn. 
All standing stout and green. 

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole, 
To see if the flax were sprung ; 

And I met the weaver at his gate, 
"With the good news on his tongue. 

" Now this is all I heard, mother. 

And all that I did see ; 
So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother, 

For I 'm tired as I can be." 

Mar y HowiTT. 



! WHEKE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR 
HEADS? 

! WHEEE do fairies hide their heads. 

When snow lies on the hills — 
"When frost has spoiled their mossy beds. 

And crystallized their rills ? 
Beneath the moon they cannot trip 

In circles o'er the plain ; 
And di'aughts of dew they cannot sip. 

Till green leaves come again. 

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-beUs, 

They plunge beneath the waves. 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 

That lie in coral caves. 
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius, 

Carousals they maintain ; 
And cheer their little spirits thus. 

Till green leaves come again. 

TVhen they return there wiU be mirth. 

And music in the air. 
And fairy wings upon the earth, 

And mischief every where. 
The maids, to keep the elves aloof, 

"Will bar the doors in vain ; 
No key-hole wiU be fairy-proof, 

"When green leaves come again. 

Thomas Haynes Batlt. 



THE OULPEIT FAY. 

"My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo ! 

Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales, 
I see old fairy land's miraculous show 1 

Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales, 
Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze. 

And fairies, swarming ." 

Tennant's Ansteb Faie. 



'T IS the middle watch of a Summer's night — 
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright ; 
Nought is seen in the vault on high 
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloud- 
less sky, 
And the flood which roUs its milky hue, 
A river of light on the welkin blue. 
The moon looks down on old Cronest ; 
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast. 
And seems his huge gray form to throw 
In a silver cone on the wave below ; 
His sides are broken by spots of shade. 
By the walnut bough and the cedar made. 
And through their clustering branches dark 
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark — 
Like starry twinkles that momently break 
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's 
rack. 

n. 
The stars are on the moving stream, 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnished length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below ; 
The winds are whist, and the owl is still ; 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid ; 
And nought is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze- winged katy-did ; 
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, 

"Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings. 
Ever a note of wail and woe. 

Till Morning spreads her rosy wings. 
And earth and sky in her glances glow. 

m. 
'T is the hour of fairy ban and spell : 
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; 
He has counted them all with click and stroke 
Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, 
And he has awakened the sentry elve 
"Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree. 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



SS*? 



To bid him ring the hour of twelve, 
And call the fays to their revelrj ; 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell— 
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly 

shell—) 
"Midnight comes, and all is well ! 
Hither, hither, wing your way ! 
'T is the dawn of the fairy-day." 



rv. 

They come from beds of lichen green, 
They creep from the mullen's velvet screen ; 

Some on the backs of beetles fly 
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, 

"Where they swung in their cobweb ham- 
mocks high. 
And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 

Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 
They had driven him out by elfin power. 

And, piUowed on plumes of his rainbow 
breast, 
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; 

Some had lain in the scoop of the rock. 
With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; 

And some had opened the four-o'clock. 
And stole within its purple shade. 

And now they throng the moonlight glade. 
Above — ^below — on every side. 

Their little minim forms arrayed 
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! 



They come not now to print the lea, 

In freak and dance around the tree. 

Or at the mushroom board to sup. 

And drink the dew from the buttercup ; — 

A scene of sorrow waits them now, 

For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; 

He has loved an earthly maid, 

And left for her his woodland shade ; 

He has lain upon her lip of dew. 

And sunned him in her eye of blue. 

Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, 

Played in the ringlets of her hair. 

And, nestling on her snowy breast, 

Forgot the lily-king's behest. 

For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the elfin court must haste away : — 
And now they stand expectant there. 

To hear the doom of the culprit fay. 



The throne was reared upon the grass. 
Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Hung the burnished canopy — 
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat. 

On his brow the crown imperial shone. 
The prisoner fay was at his feet, 

And his peers were ranged around the 
throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air. 

He looked around and calmly spoke ; 
His brow was grave and his eye severe, 

But his voice in a softened accent broke : 



" Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark : 

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; 
Thy flame -wood lamp is quenched and 
dark. 

And thy wings are dyed with a deadly 
stain — 
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye ; 
Thou hast scorned our dread decree. 

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. 
But well I know her sinless mind 

Is pure as the angel forms above. 
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, 

Such as a spirit well might love ; 
Fairy ! had she spot or taint, 
Bitter had been thy punishment : 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings ; 
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings ; 
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell 
"With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell ; 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede ; 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim. 
Tour jailer a spider, huge and grim. 
Amid the carrion bodies to lie 
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered 

fly: 

These it had been your lot to bear. 
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 
Now list, and mark our mild decree — 
Fairy, this your doom must be : 



538 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



" Thou slialt seek the beach of sand 
"Where the water bounds the elfin land ; 
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moon- 
shine, 
Then dart the glistening arch below, 
And catch a drop from his silver bow. 
The water-sprites will wield their arms 

And dash around, with roar and rave, 
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms ; 

They are the imps that rule the wave. 
Yet trust thee in thy single might : 
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right. 
Thou shalt win the warlock fight. 



" If the spray-bead gem be won, 
The stain of thy wing is washed away ; 

But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye : 

Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. 

Thou must reillume its spark. 

Mount thy steed and spur him high 

To the heaven's blue canopy ; 

And when thou seest a shooting star, 

Follow it fast, and follow it far — 

The last faint spark of its burning train 

Shall light the elfin lamp again. 

Thou hast heard our sentence, fay ; 

Hence ! to the water-side, away ! " 



The goblin marked his monarch well ; 

He spake not, but he bowed him lowj 
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell, 

And turned him round in act to go. 
The way is long, he cannot fly. 

His soiled wing has lost its power, 
And he winds adown the mountain high. 

For many a sore and weary hour. 
Through dreary beds of tangled fern. 
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern. 
Over the gi-ass and through the brake. 
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; 

Now o'er the violet's azure flush 
He skips along in lightsome mood ; 

And now he thrids the bramble-bush, 
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 



He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the 

brier, 
He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, 
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak. 
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. 
He had fallen to the ground outright. 

For rugged and dim was his onward track, 
But there came a spotted toad in sight, 

And he laughed as he jumped upon her 
back; 
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, 

He lashed her sides with an osier thong ; 
And now, through evening's dewy mist, 

"With leap and spring they bound along. 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past, 
And the beach of sand is reached at last. 



Soft and pale is the moony beam, 
Moveless still the glassy stream ; 
The wave is clear, the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light. 

In murmurings faint and distant moans ; 
And ever afar in the silence deep 
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap, 
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — 
A glittering arch of sUver sheen, 
Spanning the wave of burnished blue, 
And dripping with gems of the river-dew. 



The elfin cast a glance around, 

As he lighted down from his courser toad ; 
Then round his breast his wings he wound, 

And close to the river's brink he strode ; 
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer. 

Above his head his arms he threw. 
Then tossed a tiny curve in air. 

And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 

xni. 

Up sprung the spirits of the waves, 
From the sea-silk beds in their coral caves ; 
With snail-plate armor snatched in haste, 
They speed their way through the liquid 

waste ; 
Some are rapidly borne along 
On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong ; 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



639 



Some on the blood-red leeches glide, 
Some on the stony star-fish ride, 
Some on the back of the lancing squab, 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings ; 
They cut the wave with the living oar, 
And hurry on to the moonlight shore, ■ 
To guard their realms and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading fay. 

XIV. 

Fearlessly he skims along, 
His hope is high, and his limbs are strong; 
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, 
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling ; 
His locks of gold on the waters shine, 

At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise. 
His back gleams bright above the brine, 

And the wake-line foam behind him lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide ; 
Their warriors come in swift career 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold. 
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled. 
The prickly prong has pierced his skin. 
And the squab has thrown his javelin ; 
The gritty star has rubbed him raw. 
And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; 
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain; 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight, 
Fairv ! naught is left but flia-ht. 



He turned him round, and fled amain 
With hurry and dash to the beach again ; 
He twisted over from side to side, 
And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; 
The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, 
And with all his might he flings his feet. 
But the water-sprites are round him still. 
To cross his path and work him ill. 
They bade the wave before him rise ; 
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes ; 
And they stunned his ears with the scallop- 
stroke, 
"With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish 
croak. 



! but a weary wight was he 

When he reached the foot of the dogwood 
tree. 

— Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore. 

He laid him down on the sandy shore ; 

He blessed the force of the charmed line, 
And he banned the water-goblin's spite. 

For he saw around in the sweet moonshine 

Their little wee faces above the brine. 

Giggling and laughing with all their might 
At the piteous hap of the fairy wight. 



Soon he gathered the balsam dew 
From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud ; 

Over each wound the balm he drew, 
And with cobweb lint he stanched the 
blood. 

The mild west wind was soft and low. 

It cooled the heat of his burning brow ; 

And he felt new life in his sinews shoot. 

As he drank the juice of the calamus root ; 

And now he treads the fatal shore, 

As fresh and vigorous as before. 

XVII. 

Wrapped in musing stands the sprite : 
'T is the middle wane of night ; 

His task is hard, his way is far, 
But he must do his errand right 

Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, 
And rolls her chariot wheels of light ; 
And vain are the spells of fairy-land — 
He must work with a human hand. 

xvni. 

He cast a saddened look around ; 

But he felt new joy his bosom swell, 
When, glittering on the shadowed ground, 

He saw a purple muscle-shell ; 
Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the 

bow, 
And he pushed her over the yielding sand. 
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. 
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat 

As ever fairy had paddled in. 
For she glowed with purple paint without, 

And shone with silvery pearl within ; 



640 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



A sculler's notch in tlie stern he made, 
An oar he shaped of the bootle blade ; 
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap^ 
And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. 

XIX. 

The imps of the river yell and rave ; 
They had no power above the wave ; 
But they heaved the billow before the prow, 

And they dashed the surge against her side, 
And they struck her keel with jerk and blow. 

Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. 
She whimpled about to the pale moonbeam. 
Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed 

stream ; 
And momently athwart her track 
The quarl upreared his island back. 
And the fluttering scallop behind would float. 
And patter the water about the boat ; 
But he bailed her out with his colen-bell. 

And he kept her trimmed with a wary 
tread, 
"While on every side like lightning fell 

The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 



Onward still he held his way, 

Till he came where the column of moonshine 

lay, 
And saw beneath the surface dim 
The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim ; 
Around him were the goblin train — 
But he sculled with all his might and main, 
And followed wherever the sturgeon led. 
Till he saw him upward point his head ; 
Then he dropped his paddle-blade. 
And held his colen-goblet up 
To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 



"With sweeping taU and quivering fin 

Through the wave the sturgeon flew, 
And, like the heaven-shot javelin. 

He sprung above the waters blue. 
Instant as the star-fall light. 

He plunged him in the deep again. 
But he left an arch of silver bright, 

The rainbow of the moony main. 
It was a strange and lovely sight 

To see the puny goblin there ; 



He seemed an angel form of light. 
With azure wing and sunny hair. 
Throned on a cloud of purple fair. 

Circled with blue and edged with white. 

And sitting at the fall of even 

Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 



A moment, and its lustre fell ; 

But ere it met the billow blue, 
He caught within his crimson bell 

A droplet of its sparkling dew — 
Joy to thee, fay ! thy task is done, 
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won — 
Oheerly ply thy dripping oar, 
And haste away to the elfin shore. 



He turns, and, lo ! on either side 

The ripples on his path divide ; 

And the track o'er which, his boat must pass 

Is smooth as a sheet of pohshed glass. 

Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, 

With snowy arms half-swelling out. 
While on the giossed and gleamy wave 

Their sea-green ringlets loosely fioat ; 
They swim around with smile and song; 

They press the bark with pearly hand. 
And gently urge her course along. 

Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 

And, as he lightly leaped to land, 
They bade adieu with nod and bow ; 

Then gayly kissed each little hand. 
And dropped in the crystal deep below. 

XXIV. 

A moment stayed the fairy there ; 

He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer ; 

Then spread his wings of gilded blue. 

And on to the elfin court he flew ; 

As ever ye saw a bubble rise. 

And shine with a thousand changing dyes, 

Till, lessening far, through ether driven, 

It mingles with the hues of heaven ; 

As, at the glimpse of morning pale. 

The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, 

And gleams with blendings soft and bright, 

Till lost in the shades of fading night : 

So rose from earth the lovely fay — 

So vanished, far in heaven away ! 
***** 



THE CULPRIT FAY 



541 



Up, fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower, 
The cricl^et has called the second hour ; 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streaking of the skies — 
Up ! thy charmed armor don, 
Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. 

XXV. 

He put his acorn helmet on ; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down; 

The corslet plate that guarded his breast 

Was once the wild bee's golden vest ; 

His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, 

AVas formed of the wings of butterflies ; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, 

Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 

And the quivering lance which he brandished 

bright, 
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. 
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed ; 

He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue ; 
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, 

And away like a glance of thought he flew, 
To skim the heavens, and follow far 
The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

XXVI. 

The moth-fly, as he shot in air, 
Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; 
The katy-did forgot its lay. 
The prowling gnat fled fast away, 
The fell mosquito checked his drone 
And folded his wings till the fay was gone. 
And the wily beetle dropped his head. 
And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; 
They crouched them close in the darksome 
shade. 
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, 
For they had felt the blue-bent blade. 

And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; 
Many a time, on a summer's night. 
When the sky was clear, and the moon was 

bright, 
They had been roused from the haunted 

ground 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound ; 

They had heard the tiny bugle-horn. 
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk 
string, 
When the vine-twig bows were tightly 
drawn, 



And the needle-shaft through air was 
borne. 
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's 

wing. 
And now they deemed the courier ouphe, 
Some hunter-sprite of the elfin gi-ound ; 
And they watched till they saw him mount 
the roof 
That canopies the world around ; 
Then glad they left their covert lair, 
And freaked about in the midnight air. 

xxvn. 

Up to the vaulted firmament 

His path the fire-fly courser bent, 

And at every gallop on the wind. 

He flung a glittering spark behind ; 

He flies like a feather in the blast 

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. 

But the shapes of air have begun their 
work, 
And a drizzly mist is round him cast ; 

He cannot see through the mantle murk ; 
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast ; 

Through storm and darkness, sleet and 
shade. 
He lashes his steed, and spurs amain — 
For shadowy hands have twitched the rem, 

And flame-shot tongues around him played. 
And near him many a fiendish eye 
Glared with a fell malignity. 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 

XXVIII. 

His wings are wet arouud his breast. 
The plume hangs dripping from his crest, 
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's 

glare. 
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's 

blare ; 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew. 

He thrust before and he struck behind. 
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, 

And gashed their shadowy hmbs of wind ; 
Howling the misty spectres flew. 

They rend the air with frightful cries ; 
For he has gained the welkin blue. 

And the land of clouds beneath him lies. 



542 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


XXIX. 


Her hair is like the sunny beam. 


Up to the cope careering swift, 


And the diamond gems which round it gleam 


In breathless motion fast, 


Are the pure drops of dewy even 


Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift, 


That ne'er have left their native heaven. 


Or the sea-roc rides the blast, 




The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, 


XXXII. 


The sphered moon is past. 


She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite, 


The earth but seems a tiny blot 


And they leaped with smiles ; for well I 


On a sheet of azuro cast. 


ween 


! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, 


Never before in the bowers of light 


To tread the starry plain of even ! 


Had the form of an earthly fay been seen. 


To meet the thousand eyes of night. 


Long she looked in his tiny face ; 


And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 


Long with his butterfly cloak she played ; 


But the elfin made no stop or stay 


She smoothed his wings of azure lace, 


Till he came to the bank of the milky- way. 


And handled the tassel of his blade ; 


Then he checked his courser's foot. 


And as he told, in accents low, 


And watched for the glimpse of the planet- 


The story of his love and wo. 


shoot. 


She felt new pains in her bosom rise. 


XXX. 


And the tear-drop started in her eyes. 


Sudden along the snowy tide 


And " 0, sweet spirit of earth," she cried. 


That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall. 


" Eeturn no more to your woodland height, 


The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide. 


But ever here with me abide 


Attired in sunset's crimson pall ; 


In the land of everlasting light ! 


Around the fay they weave the dance. 


Within the fleecy drift we 'U lie, 


They skip before him on the plain. 


We '11 hang upon the rainbow's rim ; 


And one has taken his wasp-sting lance. 


And all the jewels of the sky 


And one upholds his bridle-rein ; 


Around thy brow shall brightly beam ! 


With warblings wild they lead him on 


And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 


To where, through clouds of amber seen. 


That rolls its whitening foam aboon, 


Studded with stars, resplendent shone 


And ride upon the lightning's gleam, 


The palace of the sylphid queen. 


And dance upon the orbed moon ! 


Its spiral columns, gleaming bright. 


We '11 sit within the Pleiad ring, 


Were streamers of the northern light ; 


We '11 rest on Orion's starry belt. 


Its curtain's light and lovely flush 


And I will bid my sylphs to sing 


Was of the morning's rosy blush ; 


The song that makes the dew-mist melt ; 


And the ceiling fair that rose aboon, 


Their harps are of the umber shade 


The white and feathery fleece of noon. 


That hides the blush of waking day. 




And every gleamy string is made 


XXXI. 


Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray ; 


But, ! how fair the shape that lay 


And thou shalt pillow on my breast, 


Beneath a rainbow bending bright ; 


While heavenly breathings float around, 


She seemed to the entranced fay 


And, with the sylphs of ether blest, 


The loveliest of the forms of light ; 


Forget the joys of fairy ground." 


Her mantle was the purple rolled 




At twilight in the west afar ; 


xxxni. 


'T was tied with threads of dawning gold, 


She was lovely and fair to see 


And buttoned with a sparkling star. 


And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ; 


Her face was like the lily roon 


But lovelier far, and still more fair, 


That veils the vestal planet's hue ; 


The earthly form imprinted there ; 


Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon. 


Naught he saw in the heavens above 


Set floating in the welkin blue. 


Was half so dear as his mortal love, 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



543 



For he thought upon her looks so meek, 
And he thought of the light flush on her 

cheek ; 
Never again might he bask and lie 
On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye ; 
But in his dreams her form to see, 
To clasp her in his re very, 
To think upon his virgin bride, 
"Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. 



"Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night, 

On the word of a fairy-knight, 

To do my sentence-task aright ; 

My honor scarce is free from stain — 

I may not soil its snows again ; 

Betide me weal, betide me wo. 

Its mandate must be answered now." 

Her bosom heaved with many a sigh. 

The tear was in her drooping eye ; 

But she led him to the palace gate, 

And caUed the sylphs who hovered there. 
And bade them fly and bring him straight, 

Of clouds condensed, a sable car. 
With charm and spell she blessed it there, 
From aU the flends of upper air ; 
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, 
And tied his steed behind the cloud ; 
And pressed his hand as she bade him fly 
Far to the verge of the northern sky, 
For by its wane and wavering light 
There was a star would fall to-night. 



Borne afar on the wings of the blast, 
Northward away, he speeds him fast, 
And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. 
The clouds roll backward as he flies. 
Each flickering star behind him lies. 
And he has reached the northern plain. 
And backed his fire-fly steed again, 
Ready to follow in its flight 
The streaming of the rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The star is yet in the vault of heaven, 

But it rocks in the summer gale ; 
And now 't is fitful and uneven. 
And now 't is deadly pale ; 



And now 't is wrapped in sulphur-smoke. 

And quenched is its rayless beam ; 
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke 

It bursts in flash and flame. 
As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance 

That the storm-spirit flings from high, 
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue. 

As it fell from the sheeted sky. 
As swift as the wind in its train behind 

The elfin gallops along : 
The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, 

But the sylphid charm is strong ; 
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, 

While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze ; 
He watches each flake till its sparks expire. 

And rides in the light of its rays. 
But he drove his steed to the lightning's 
speed, 

And caught a glimmering spark ; 
Then wheeled around to the fairy ground. 

And sped through the midnight dark. 



Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! 

Elf of eve ! and starry fay ! 
Ye that love the moon's soft light. 

Hither — hither wend your way ; 
Twine ye in a jocund ring, 

Sing and trip it merrily. 
Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 

Bound the wild witch-hazel tree. 



Hail the wanderer again 

With dance and song, and lute and lyre ; 
Pure his wing and strong his chain, 

And doubly bright his fairy fire. 
Twine ye in an airy round. 

Brush the dew and print the lea ; 
Skip and gambol, hop and bound, 

Bound the wild witch-hazel tree. 



The beetle guards our holy ground, 

He flies about the haunted place. 
And if mortal there be found, 

He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; 
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay. 

The owlet's eyes our lanterns be ; 
Thus we sing, and dance, and play, 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 



544 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


But, hark ! from tower on tree-top high, 


They took her lightly back. 


The sentry-elf his call has made ; 


Between the night and morrow ; 


A streak is in the eastern sky, 


They thought that she was fast asleep, 


Shapes of moonlight ! flit and fade ! 


But she was dead with sorrow. 


The hill-tops gleam in Morning's spring, 


They have kept her ever since 


The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, 


Deep within the lakes, 


The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn. 


On a bed of flag-leaves. 


The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone. 


Watching till she wakes. 


Joseph Eobman Dbake. 






By the craggy hill-side, 




Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 






For pleasure here and there. 


THE FAIKIES. 


Is any man so daring 




To dig one up in spite, 


Up the airy mountain, 


He shall find the thornies set 


Down the rushy glen, 


In his bed at night. 


We dare n't go a hunting 




For fear of little men ; 


r Up the airy mountain. 


Wee folk, good folk. 


Down the rushy glen, 


Trooping all together ; 


We dare n't go a hunting 


Green jacket, red cap, 


For fear of little men ; 


And white owl's feather! 


Wee folk, good folk, 




Trooping all together ; 


Down along the rocky shore 
Some make their home — 


Green jacket, red cap. 
And white owl's feather ! 


They live on crispy pancakes 


William Alldtgham. 


Of yellow tide-foam ; 
Some in the reeds 




• 


Of the black mountain-lake, 




With frogs for their watch-dogs, 


THE FAIRIES' FAREWELL. 


All night awake. 






Faeewell rewards and Fairies ! 


High on the hill-top 


Good housewives now may say ; 


The old king sits ; 


For now foule sluts in dairies 


He is now so old and gray 


Doe fare as weU as they ; 


He 's nigh lost his wits. 


And though they sweepe their hearths no 


With a bridge of white mist 


. less 


Columbkill he crosses, 


Than mayds were wont to doe. 


On his stately journeys 


. Yet who of late for cleaneliness 


From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 


Finds sixe-pence in her shoe ? 


Or going up with music 




On cold, starry nights, 


Lament, lament, old Abbeys, 


To sup with the queen 


The fairies' lost command ! 


Of the gay Northern Lights. 


They did but change priests' babies, 




But some have changed your land ; 


They stole little Bridget 


And all your children, stoln from thence, 


For seven years long ; 


Are now growne Puritanes, 


When she came down again 


Who live as changelings ever since. 


Her friends were all gone. 


For love of your demames. 



BIRTH AND DEATH OF FANCY. 545 


At morning and at evening both 


To William all give audience. 


You merry were and glad ; 


And pray yee for his noddle ; 


So little care of sleepe and sloth 


Tor all the fairies' evidence 


These prettie ladies had. 


Were lost if it were addle. 


"When Tom came home from labor, 


ElCHAKD COEBETT. 


Or Ciss to milking rose, 
Then merrily went their tabour, 






And nimbly went their toes. 






THE BIRTH OF VENUS. 


Witness : those rings and ronndelayes 


The ocean stood like crystal. The soft air 


Of theirs, which yet remame, 


Stirred not the glassy waves; but sweetly 


Were footed in Queen Marie's dayes 


there 


On many a grassy playne. 


Had rocked itself to slumber. The blue sky 


But since of late Elizabeth, 


Leaned silently above ; and all its high 


And later James, came in, 


And azure-circled roof beneath the wave 


They never danced on any heath 


Was imaged back, and seemed the deep to 


As when the time hath bin. 


pave 




With its transparent beauty. While, between 


By which wee note the fairies 


The waves and sky, a few white clouds were 


Were of the old profession ; 


seen 


Their songs were Ave-Maries^ 


Floating upon their wings of feathery gold. 


Their dances were procession. 


As if they knew some charm the universe en- 


But, now, alas ! they all are dead, 


rolled. 


Or gone beyond the seas. 


• 


Or farther for religion fled; 


A holy stillness came ; while, in the ray 


Or else they take their ease. 


Of heaven's soft light, a delicate foam- wreath 

lay 
Like silver on the sea. Look! look! why 


A tell-tale in their company 


They ncYer could endure ; 


shine 


And whoso kept not secretly 


Those floating bubbles with such light divine ? 


Their mirth, was punished sure ; 


They break ; and from their mist a lily form 


It was a just and Christian deed 


Rises from out the wave, in beauty warm. 


To pinch such blacke and blue : 


The wave is by the blue- veined feet scarce 


how the common- welth doth need 


prest ; 


Such justices as you ! 


Her silky ringlets float about her breast. 




Veiling its fairy loveliness ; while her eye 


Now they have left our quarters. 


Is soft and deep as the blue heaven is high. 


A Eegister they have, 


The Beautiful is born ; and sea and earth 


Who can preserve their charters — 


May well revere the hour of that mysterious 


A man both wise and grave. 


birth. ■ 

Anonymotts. 


An hundred of their merry pranks. 




By one that I could name. 


* " 


Are kept in store ; con twenty thanks 




To William for the same. 


SONG. 


To William Ohurne of Staffordshire 


The fairy beam upon you, 


Give laud and praises due, 


The stars to glister on you ; 


Who, every meale, can mend your cheare 


A moon of light 


With tales both old and true ; 
35 


In the noon of night 



546 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


Till the fire-drake hath o'ergone you ! 




The wheel of fortune guide you, 


SONG. 


The boy with the bow beside you ; 


Run aye in the way 




Till the bird of day, 


Heae, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 


And the luckier lot betide you ! 


Lest a blacker charm compel ! 


Ben Jonson. 


So shall the midnight breezes swell 




With thy deep, long, lingering knell. 
And at evening evermore, 




ARIEL'S SONGS. 


In a chapel on the shore. 




Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly, 


I. 


Yellow tapers burning faintly. 


Come unto these yellow sands, 


Doleful masses chaunt for thee— 


And then take hands ; 


Miserere Domine ! 


Court'sied when you have, and kissed, 




(The wild waves whist !) 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 


Hark ! the cadence dies away 
On the quiet moonlight sea ; 


Hark, hark ! 


The boatman rest their oars and say. 
Miserere Domine ! 


Bowgh^ wowgJi. 




The watch-dogs bark — 


Samttel Tayloe Coleeidqb. 


BowgTi^ wowgh. 




Hark, hark ! I hear 


— • — 


The strain of strutting chanticleer 




Cry Cock-a-doodle-doo. 


SIREN'S SONG. 


n. 


Steee hither, steer your winged pines. 


Full fathom five thy father lies ; 


All beaten mariners ! 


Of his bones are coral made ; 


Here lie love's undiscovered mines, 


Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 


A prey to passengers — 


Nothing of him that doth fade 


Perfumes far sweeter than the best 


But doth suffer a sea-change 


Which make the phoenix' urn and nest. 


Into something rich and strange. 


Fear not your ships ; 


Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 


Nor any to oppose you, save our lips ; 


Ding-dong. 


But come on shore. 


Hark ! now I hear them — ding, dong, bell ! 


Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. 


m. 


For swelling waves our panting breasts, 


Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 


Where never storms arise. 


In a cowslip's bell I he ; 


Exchange ; and be awhile our guests— 


There I couch when owls do cry ; 


For stars, gaze on our eyes. 


On the bat's back I do fly 


The compass Love shall hourly sing ; 


After Summer merrily. 


And, as he goes about the ring. 


Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 


We will not miss 


Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 


To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. 


SHAKK8PBABB. 


William Beowne. 





THE WATER FAY. 



541 



THE LORELEI. 

I Ksrow not what it presages, 
This heart with sadness fraught : 

'T is a tale of the olden ages, 
That wiU not from my thought. 

The air grows cool, and darkles ; 

The Rhine flows calmly on ; 
The mountain summit sparkles 

In the light of the setting sun. 

There sits, in soft reclining, 

A maiden wondrous fair. 
With golden raiment shining. 

And combing her golden hair. 

With a comb of gold she combs it ; 

And combing, low singeth she — 
A song of a strange, sweet sadness, 

A wonderful melody. 

The sailor shudders, as o'er him, 
The strain comes floating by ; 

He sees not the cliffs before him — 
He only looks on high. 

Ah ! round him the dark waves, flinging 
Their arm.s, draw him slowly down — 

And this, with her wild, sweet singing, 
The Lorelei has done, 

Henry Heine. (German.) 
Translation of Cheistophee Peakse Ceanch. 



THE WATER LADY. 



Alas, that moon should ever beam 
To show what man should never see !- 
I saw a maiden on a stream, 
And fair was she ! 

n. 

I staid awhile, to see her throw 
Her tresses back, that all beset 
The fair horizon of her brow 
With clouds of jet. 



I staid a little while to view 
Her cheek, that wore, in place of red. 
The bloom of water — tender blue, 
Daintily spread. 



I staid to watch, a little space. 
Her parted lips, if she would sing ; 
The waters closed above her face 
With many a ring. 



And still I staid a little more — 
Alas ! she never comes again ! 
I throw my flowers from the shore. 
And watch in vain. 



I know my life will fade away — 
I know that I must vainly pine ; 
For I am made of mortal clay. 
But she 's divine ! 

Thomas Hood. 



THE WATER FAY. 

The night comes stealing o'er me. 

And clouds are on the sea ; 
While the wavelets rustle before me 

With a mystical melody. 

A water-maid rose singing 

Before me, fair and pale ; 
And snow-white breasts were springing, 

Like fountains, 'neath her veil. 

She kissed me and she pressed me. 
Till I wished her arms away : 

"Why hast thou so caressed me. 
Thou lovely Water Fay ? " 

" 0, thou need'st not alarm thee, 

That thus thy form I hold ; 
For I only seek to warm me, 

And the night is black and cold." 



648 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 



" The wind to the waves is calling, 
The moonlight is fading away ; 

And tears down thy cheek are falling, 
Thou beautiful Water Fay ! " 

" The wind to the waves is calling. 
And the moonlight grows dim on the 
rocks ; 
But no tears from mine eyes are falling, 
'Tis the water which di-ips from my 
locks." 

" The ocean is heaving and sobbing, 
The sea-mews scream in the spray ; 

And thy heart is wildly throbbing. 
Thou beautiful Water Fay ! " 

" My heart is wildly swelling, 
And it beats in burning truth ; 

For I love thee, past all telling — 
Thou beautiful mortal youth." 



Henry Heine. 
Translation of Chables G. Leland. 



(Grerman.) 



SONG. 



A Lake and a fairy boat. 

To sail in the moonlight clear — 

And merrily we would float 

From the dragons that watch us here I 



Thy gown should be snow-white silk ; 
And strings of orient pearls, 
Like gossamers dipped in milk, 
Should twine with thy raven curls ! 

in. 

Ked rubies should deck thy hands. 
And diamonds should be thy dower — 
But fairies have broke their wands, 
And wishing has lost its power ! 

Thomas Hood. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

PAET I. 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye. 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And through the field the road runs by 

To many-towered Oamelot ; 
And up and down the people go. 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below — 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten ; aspens quiver ; 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river, 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers ; 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veiled. 
Slide the heavy barges, trailed 
By slow horses ; and, unbailed. 
The shallop flitteth, silken-sailed — 

Skimming down to Camelot ; 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land — - 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river, winding clearly 

Down to towered Camelot ; 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers '"Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

PAET II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 549 


Slie knows not what the cnrse may be ; 


Hung in the golden galaxy. 


And so she weaveth steadily, 


The bridle bells rang merrily. 


And little other care hath she — 


As he rode down to Camelot ; 


The Lady of Shalott. 


And, from his blazoned baldric slung, 




A mighty silver bugle hung ; 


And, moving through a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 


And as he rode his armor rung, 
Beside remote Shalott. 


Shadows of the world appear. 




There she sees the highway near, 


All in the blue unclouded weather 


"Winding down to Camelot ; 


Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather ; 


There the river eddy whirls ; 


The helmet and the helmet-feather 


And there the surly village-churls. 


Burned like one burning flame together, 


And the red cloaks of market-girls, 


As he rode down to Camelot.' 


Pass onward from Shalott. 


As often, through the purple night. 




Below the starry clusters bright, 


Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 


Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 


An abbot on an ambling pad — 


Moves over stiU Shalott. 


Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 


1 


Or long-haired page, in crimson clad. 


His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; 


Goes by to towered Oamelot ; 


On burnished hooves his war-horse trode ; 


And sometimes through the mirror blue 


From underneath his helmet flowed 


The knights come riding, two and two : 


His coal-black curls as on he rode. 


She hath no loyal knight and true — 


As he rode down to Camelot. 


The Lady of Shalott. 


From the bank and from the river 




He flashed into the crystal mirror : 


But in her web she still delights 


" Tirra lirra," by the river. 


To weave the mirror's magic sights ; 


Sang Sir Lancelot. 


For often, through the silent nights, 




A fimeral, with plumes and lights 


She left the web, she left the loom ; 


And music, went to Camelot ; 


She made three paces through the room ; 


Or, when the moon was overhead. 


She saw the water-lily bloom ; 


Came two young lovers lately wed ; 


She saw the helmet and the plume ; 


"I am half-sick of shadows," said 


She looked down to Camelot : 


The Lady of Shalott. 


Out flew the web, and floated wide ; 




The mirror cracked from side to side ; 




" The curse is come upon me," cried 


PAET in. 


The Lady of Shalott. 


A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 




He rode between the barley sheaves ; 




The sun came dazzlmg through the leaves. 


PAET IV. 


And flamed upon the brazen greaves 


In the stormy east- wind straining, 


Of bold Sir Lancelot. 


The pale yellow woods were waning — 


A red-cross -knight for ever kneeled . 


The broad stream in his banks complaining. 


To a lady in his shield, 


Heavily the low sky raining 


That spai-kled on the yellow field. 


Over towered Camelot ; 


Beside remote Shalott. 


Down she came, and found a boat. 




Beneath a willow left afloat ; 


The gemmy bridle glittered free, 


And round about the prow she wrote 


Like to some branch of stars we see 


The Lady of Shalott. 



560 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 



And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away — 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying robed in snowy white, 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Through the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
Ajid as the boat-head wound along, 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song — 

The Lady of Shalott— 

Heard a carol, monrnful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly — 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darkened wholly. 

Turned to towered Camelot ; 
For ere she reached, upon the tide. 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing, in her song she died — 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden- wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape, she floated by — 

A corse between the houses high — 

Silent, into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame ; 
And round the prow they read her name- 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the royal palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they crossed themselves for fear — 

All the knights at Camelot ; 
But Lancelot mused a little space : 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace — 

The Lady of Shalott." 

Alfbed Tenntson. 



COMUS, A MASK. 

THE PEESOiSTS. 

The attendant Spirit, afterwards in the habit 

of Thyesis. 
CoMirs, with his crew. 
The Lady. 
First Bkotheb. 
Second Bkotheb. 
Sabeina, the Nymph. 

THE FIEST SCENE DISCOVEES A WILD W OOD. 

TJie attendant Spieit descends or enters. 
Befoee the starry threshold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 
In regions mild of calm and serene air. 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot. 
Which men call Earth, and, with low-thought- 

ed care 
Confined, and pestered in this pinfold here, 
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, 
Unmindful of the crown that virtue gives, 
After this mortal change, to her true ser- 
vants. 
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. 
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 
To lay their just hands on that golden key 
That opes the palace of eternity. 
To such my errand is ; and, but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds 
With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mould. 
But to my task: Neptune, besides the 
sway 
Of every salt flood, and each ebbing stream. 
Took in, by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove, 
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles. 
That like to rich and various gems inlay 
The unadorned bosom of the deep ; 
Which he, to grace his tributary gods. 
By course commits to several government. 
And gives them leave to wear their sapphire 

crowns. 
And wield their little tridents. But this isle, 
The greatest and the best of all the main. 
He quarters to his blue-haired deities ; 
And all this tract, that fronts the falling sun, 
A noble peer of mickle trust and power 
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to 

guide 
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms; 



COMUS 



551 



Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely 

lore, 
Are coming to attend their father's state. 
And new-intrusted sceptre ; hut their way 
Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear 

wood, 
The nodding horror of whose shady hrows 
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger. 
And here their tender age might suffer peril. 
But that, hy quick command from sovereign 

Jove, 
I was despatched for their defence and guard ; 
And listen why — ^for I wiU tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song, 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 
Bacchus, that first from out the purple 

grape 
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine. 
After the Tuscan mariners transformed. 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds 

listed, 
On Circe's island fell. Who knows not Circe, 
The daughter of the sun, whose charmed cup 
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, 
And downward fell into a grovelling swine ? 
This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering 

locks 
With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe 

youth. 
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son 
Much like his father, but his mother more ; 
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus 

named ; 
Who ripe, and frolic of his full grown age, 
Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields. 
At last betakes him to this ominous wood. 
And, in thick shelter of black shades imbow- 

ered. 
Excels his mother at her mighty art. 
Offering to every weary traveller 
His orient liquor in a crystal glass, 
To quench the drouth of Phoebus ; which as 

they taste, 
(For most do taste through fond intemp'rate 

thirst) 
Soon as the potion Avorks, their human coun- 
tenance, 
Th' express resemblance of the gods, is 

changed 
Into some brutish form, of wolf, or bear, 
Or ounce, or tiger, hog or bearded goat — 



All other parts remaining as they were ; 
And they, so perfect is their misery, 
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement. 
But boast themselves more comely than be- 
fore; 
And all their friends and native home forget. 
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. 
Therefore, when any favored of high Jove 
Chances to pass through this adventurous 



Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 
I shoot from heav'n, to give him safe con- 
voy- 
As now I do. But first I must put off 
These my sky robes, spun out of Iris' woof. 
And take the weeds and likeness of a swain, 
That to the service of this house belongs. 
Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied 



Well knows to still the wild winds when they 

roar. 
And hush the waving woods; nor of less 

faith, 
And, in this office of his mountain watch, 
Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid. 
Of this occasion. But I hear the tread 
Of hateful steps ; I must be viewless now. 

CoMrs enters^ with a charming rod in one 
hand^ his glass in the other ; with him a 
rout of monsters^ headed like sundry sorts 
of wild 'beasts — but otherwise lihe men and 
women^ their apparel glistening ; they come 
in making a riotous and unruly noise^ with 
torches in their hands. 

Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold 

Now the top of heaven doth hold ; 

And the gilded car of day 

His glowing axle doth allay 

In the steep Atlantic stream ; 

And the slope sun his upward beam 

Shoots against the dusky pole. 

Pacing toward the other goal 

Of his chamber in the east. 

Meanwhile welcome Joy and Feast, 

Midnight Shout and Revelry, 

Tipsy Dance and Jollity. 

Braid your locks with rosy twine. 

Dropping odors, dropping wine. 

Rigor now is gone to bed, 



552 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And Advice with scrupulous head ; 

Strict Age, and sour Severity, 

With their grave saws in slumber lie. 

We that are of purer fire 

Imitate the starry quire. 

Who in their nightly watchful spheres 

Lead in swift round the months and years. 

The sounds and seas, with all their finny 
drove, 

Kow to the moon in wavering morrice move ; 

And on the tawny sands and shelves 

Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 

By dimpled brook, and fountain brim. 

The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim, 

Their merry wakes and pastimes keep ; 

What hath night to do with sleep ? 

Night hath better sweets to prove ; 

Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. 

Come ! let us our rites begin — 

'T is only daylight that makes us sin, 

Which these dun shades will ne'er report. 

Hail Goddess of nocturnal sport. 

Dark- veiled Cotytto ! t' whom the secret 
flame 

Of midnight torches burns ; mysterious dame. 

That ne'er art called but when the dragon 
womb 

Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom. 

And makes one blot of all the air ; 

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair. 

Wherein thou ridest with Hecate, and be- 
friend 

Us, thy vowed priests, till utmost end 

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out, 

Ere the babbling eastern scout. 

The nice morn, on the Indian steep 

From her cabined loophole peep, 

And to the tell-tale sun descry 

Our concealed solemnity. 

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 

In a light fantastic round ! 

THE MEASUEE. 

Break ofi", break off! I feel the different pace 
Of some chaste footing near about this ground. 
Kun to your shrouds, within these brakes and 

trees ; 
Our number may affright some virgin sure, 
(For so I can distinguish by mine art). 
Benighted in these woods. Now to my 

charms. 



And to my wily trains ; I shall ere long 
Be well stocked, with as fair a herd as grazed 
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 
My dazzling spells into the spungy air, 
Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion, 
And give it false presentments ; lest the place 
And my quaint habits breed astonish ment. 
And put the damsel to suspicious flight — 
Which must not be, for that's against my 

course. 
I, under fair pretence of friendly ends, 
And well placed words of giozing courtesy, 
Baited with reasons not unplausible. 
Wind me into the easy-hearted man, 
And hug him into snares. When once her 

eye 
Hath met the virtue of this magic dust, 
I shall appear some harmless villager. 
Whom thrift keeps up, about his country gear. 
But here she comes ; I fairly step aside, 
And hearken, if I may, her business here. 

THE LADY ENTEES. 

This way the noise was, if mine ear be true — 
My best guide now ; methought it was the 

sound 
Of riot and ill-managed merriment. 
Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe 
Stirs up among the loose, unlettered hinds. 
When for their teeming flocks, and granges 

full, 
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous 

Pan, 
And thank the gods amiss. I should be 

loath 
To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence 
Of such late wassailers ; yet ! where else 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? 
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 
With this long way, resolving here to lodge 
Under the spreading favor of these pines. 
Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket side 
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 
As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
They left me, then, when the gray-hooded 

Even, 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, 
Eose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' 

wain. 



COMUS. 



553 



But wliere tliey are, and why they came not 
back, 

Is now the labor of my thoughts ; 't is like- 
liest 

They had engaged their wandering steps too 
far; 

And envious darkness, ere they could return. 

Had stole them from me. Else, O thievish 
Night, 

Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious 
end. 

In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, 

That nature hung in heaven, and filled their 
lamps 

With everlasting oil, to give due light 

To the misled and lonely traveller ? 

This is the place, as well as I may guess, 

Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth 

Was rife, and perfect in my Hstening ear ; 

Yet nought but single darkness do I find. 

What might this be ? A thousand fantasies 

Begin to throng into my memory. 

Of calhng shapes, and beckoning shadows 
dire, 

And airy tongues, that syllable men's names 

On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 

These thoughts may startle well, but not as- 
tound 

The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 

By a strong-siding champion. Conscience. 

welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed 

Hope — 
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings — 
And thou, unblemished form of Chastity ! 

1 see ye visibly, and now believe 

That he, the Supreme Good, t' whom aU 

things ill 
Are but as slavish oflScers of vengeance, 
Would send a glistering guardian, if need 

were. 
To keep my life and honor unassailed. 
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 
Turn forth her silver lining on the night ? 
I did not err, there does a sable cloud 
Turn forth her silver lining on the night. 
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. 
I cannot halloo to my brothers ; but 
Such noise as I can make, to be heard far- 
thest, 
I 'U venture, for my new-enlivened spirits 
Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far off. 



SONG". 

SwEEt Echo, sweetest nymph — that livest 
unseen 
Within thy airy shell, 
By slow Meander's margent green. 
And in the violet-embroidered vale 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well- 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
Oj if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave, 
Tell me but where. 
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the 

sphere ! 
So mayst thou be translated to the skies. 
And give resounding grace to all heaven's 
harmonies. 

Enter Comtis. 

Com. Can any mortal mixture of earth's 

mould 
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment ? 
Sure something holy lodges in that breast. 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty- vaulted night — 
At every faU smoothing the raven down 
Of darkness till it smiled ! I oft have heard 
My mother Circe with the Sirens three. 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs. 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned 

soul. 
And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept. 
And chid her barking waves into attention. 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause ; 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself. 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight. 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. I '11 speak to her, 
And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign 

wonder ! 
Whom, certain, these rough shades did never 

breed. 
Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 
Dwellest here with Pan or Silvan, by blest 

song 



664 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 
To touch the prosperous growth of this tall 
wood! 
Lad. Nay, gentle Shepherd, ill is lost that 
praise 
That is addressed to unattending ears ; 
Not any boast of skilly but extreme shift 
How to regain my severed company, 
Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo, 
To give me answer from her mossy couch. 
Com. What chance, good lady, hath bereft 

you thus ? 
Lad. Dim darkness, and this leafy laby- 
rinth. 
Com. Could that divide you from near ush- 
ering guides ? 
Lad. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 
Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy ? or why ? 
Lad. To seek i' th' valley some cool friendly 

spring. 
Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, 

lady? 
Lad. They were but twain, and purposed 

quick return. 
Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented 

them. 
Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! 
Com. Imports their loss, beside the present 

need? 
Lad. No less than if I should my brothers 

lose. 
Com. Were they of manly prime, or youth- 
ful bloom ? 
Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored 

lips. 
Com. Two such I saw, what time the la- 
bored ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came. 
And the swinked hedger at his supper sat ; 
I saw them, under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots. 
Their port was more than human, as they 

stood ; 
I took it for a fairy vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element. 
That in the colors of the rainbow live. 
And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was awe- 
struck ; 
And as I passed, I worshipped. If those you 
seek, 



It were a journey like the path to heaven 
To help you find them. 
Lad. Gentle villager, 
What readiest way would bring me to that 

place? 
Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby 

point. 
Lad. To find that out, good shepherd, I 

suppose, 
In such a scant allowance of star-light, 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art, 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 
Com. I know each lane, and every alley 

green, 
Dingle or bushy dell, of this wild wood. 
And every bosky bourn from side to side — 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray-attendants be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched paUat rouse ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct you, lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till further quest. 

Lad. Shepherd, I take thy word. 
And trust thy honest-offered courtesy, 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 
With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls 
And courts of princes, where it first was 

named. 
And yet is most pretended ; in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. 
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my 

trial 
To my proportioned strength. Shepherd, 

lead on ! 

Enter The Two Beothees. 

1 Be. IJnmuflfle, ye faint stars! and thou, 
fair moon, 
That wont'st to love the traveller's benison, 
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber 

cloud. 
And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here 
In double night of darkness and of shades ; 
Or if your influence be quite dammed up 
With black usurping mists, some gentle taper, 
Though a rush candle from the wicker-hole 
Of some clav habitation, visit us 



COMUS. 



555 



With thy long-levelled rule of streaming 

light; 
And thou shalt be our star of Arcady, 
Or Tyrian cynosure. 

2 Be. Or if our eyes 
Be barred that happiness, might we but hear 
The folded flocks penned in their wattled 

cotes, 
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, 
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock 
Count the night watches to his feathery 

dames, 
'T would be some solace yet, some little cheer- 
ing 
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. 
But that hapless virgin, our lost sister ! 
Where may she wander now, whither betake 

her 
From the chill dew, among rude burs and 

thistles ? 
Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now ; 
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm 
Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad 

fears ; 
What if in wild amazement and affright, 
Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp 
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat ? 

1 Be. Peace, brother! be not over-exqui- 
site 
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils ; 
For grant they be so — while they rest un- 
known. 
What need a man forestall his date of grief. 
And run to meet what he would most avoid ? 
Or if they be but false alarms of fear, 
How bitter is such self-delusion ! 
I do not think my sister so to seek, 
Or so unprincipled in virtue's book, 
And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms 

ever. 
As that the single want of light and noise 
Q^ot being in danger, as I trust she is not) 
Could stir the constant mood of her calm 

thoughts, 
And put them into misbecoming plight. 
Virtue could see to do what virtue would 
By her own radiant light, though sun and 

moon 
Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self 
Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, 
Where, with her best nurse. Contemplation, 



She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her 

wings, 
That in the various bustle of resort 
Were all-to ruffled, and sometimes impaired. 
He that has light within his own clear breast 
May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright day ; 
But he that hides a dark soul, and foul 

thoughts, 
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; 
Himself is his own dungeon. 

2 Be. 'T is most true, 
That musing Meditation most affects 
The pensive secrecy of desert cell, 
Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, 
And sits as safe as in a senate house ; 
For who would rob a hermit of his weeds. 
His few books, or his beads, or maple dish, 
Or do his gray hairs any violence ? 
But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree 
Laden with blooming gold, had need the 

guard 
Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye, 
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit 
From the rash hand of bold incontinence. 
You may as well spread out the unsunned 

heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den. 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 
Danger will wink on opportunity. 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 
Of night, or loneliness, it recks me not ; 
I fear the dread events that dog them both. 
Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the per- 
son 
Of om* unowned sister. 

1 Be. I do not, brother. 

Infer as if I thought my sister's state 
Secure without aU doubt, or controversy ; 
Yet where an equal poise of hope and fear 
Does arbitrate th' event, my nature is 
That I incline to hope, rather than fear, 
And gladly banish squint Suspicion. 
My sister is not so defenceless left 
As you imagine ; she has hidden strength. 
Which you remember not. 

2 Ke. What hidden strength. 

Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean 
that? 
1 Be. I mean that too, but yet a hidden 
strength. 



556 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her 

own: 
'T is Chastity, my brother, Chastity : 
She that has that is clad in complete steel. 
And like a quivered nymph with arrows keen 
May trace huge forests, and unharbored 

heaths, 
Infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds, 
"Where, through the sacred rays of Chastity, 
No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity ; 
Yea there, where very Desolation dwells 
By grots, and caverns shagged with horrid 

shades, 
She may pass on with unblenched majesty. 
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, 
In fog, or fire, .by lake, or moorish fen, 
Blue, meagre hag, or stubborn, unlaid ghost. 
That breaks his magic chains at curfeu time, 
NTo goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, 
Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 
To testify the arms of Chastity ? 
Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow. 
Fair silver-shafted queen, forever chaste, 
Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness 
And spotted mountain pard, but set at naught 
The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 
Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o' 

the woods. 
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield 
That wise Minerva wore, unconquered vir- 
gin, 
Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed 

stone. 
But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 
And noble grace that dashed brute violence 
With sudden adoration, and blank awe ? 
So dear to Heaven is saintly Chastity, 
That when a soul is found sincerely so 
A thousand liveried angels lackey her. 
Driving far ofl^ each thing of sin and guilt, 
And in clear dream, and solemn vision, 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear. 
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape. 
The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence. 
Till all be made immortal ; but when Lust, 



Bj unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul 

talk. 
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin. 
Lets in Defilement to the inward parts. 
The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
Imbodies and imbrutes, till she quite lose 
The divine property of her first being. 
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows 

damp, 
Oft seen in charnel vaults, and sepulchres, 
Lingering, and sitting by a new-made grave. 
As loath to leave the body that it loved. 
And linked itself by carnal sensuality 
To a degenerate and degraded state. 

2 Be. How charming is divine philosophy ! 
Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose. 
But musical as is Apollo's lute, 
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, 
Where no crude surfeit reigns. 

1 Be. List ! list ! I hear 

Some far off halloo break the silent air. 

2 Br. Methought so, too ; what should ifc 

be? 

1 Be. For certain 

Either some one like us, night-foundered here. 
Or else some neighbor wood-man ; or, at 

worst. 
Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 

2 Be. Heaven keep my sister. Again, 

again, and near ; 
Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 

1 Be. I '11 halloo ; 

If he be friendly, he comes well ; if not, 
Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be foi 
us. 

The attendant Spieit, habited like a Shepherd 

That halloo I should know, what are you? 

speak ; 
Come not too near, you fall on iron stakes 

else. 
Spi. What voice is that ? my young lord ? 

speak again. 

2 Be. brother, 't is my father's shepherd, 

sure. 
1 Be. Thyrsis ? whose artful strains have 

oft delayed 
The huddling brook to hear his madrigal. 
And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale. 
How cam'st thou here, good swain? hath 

any ram 



COMUS. 



55Y 



Slipt from the fold, or young kid lost his 

dam, 
Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook ? 
How could'st thou find this dark sequestered 

nook? 
Spi. my loved master's heir, and his 

next joy, 
I came not here on such a trivial toy 
As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth 
Of pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy wealth 
That doth enrich these downs is worth a 

thought 
To this my errand, and the care it brought. 
But, my virgin Lady, where is she ? 
How chance she is not in your company ? 
1 Be. To tell thee sadly, shepherd, without 

blame, 
Or our neglect we lost her as we came. 
Spi. Aye me unhappy ! then my fears are 

true. 
1 Be. What fears, good Thyreis ? Prithee 

briefly shew. 
Spi. I '11 tell ye ; 't is not vain or fabulous 
(Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance) 
What the sage poets, taught by th' heavenly 

Muse, 
Storied of old in high immortal verse, 
Of dire chimeras and enchanted isles, 
And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to 

heU; 
For such there be, but unbelief is blind. 

Within the navel of this hideous wood, 
Immared in cypress shades a sorcerer dwells, 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries; 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 
By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 
With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing 

poison 
The visage quite transforms of him that 

di'inks. 
And the inglorious likeness of a beast 
Fixes instead, unmoulding Reason's mintage 
Charactered in the face ; this have I learnt 
Tending my flocks hard by i' th' hilly crofts, 
That brow this bottom glade, whence night 

by night 
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl 
Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey, 
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 
In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. 



Yet have they many baits, and guileful spells, 
To' inveigle and invite th' unwary sense 
Of them that pass unweeting by the way. 
This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 
Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb 
Of knot-grass dew-besprmt, and were in fold, 
I sat me down to watch upon a bank 
With ivy canopied, and interwove 
With flaunting honey-suckle, and began. 
Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy, 
To meditate my rural minstrelsy. 
Till Fancy had her fill ; but ere a close. 
The wonted roar was up amidst the woods, 
And filled the air with barbarous dissonance ; 
At which I ceased, and listened them awhile. 
Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 
Gave respite to the drowsy flighted steeds 
That draw the litter of close-curtained Sleep ; 
At last a soft and solemn breathing sound 
Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes. 
And stole upon the air, that even Silence 
Was took ere she was ware, and wished she 

might 
Deny her nature, and be never more. 
Still to be so displaced. I was all ear. 
And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of Death ; but O, ere long. 
Too well I did perceive it was the voice 
Of my most honored Lady, your dear sister. 
Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and 

fear; 
And O poor hapless nightingale, thought I, 
How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly 

snare ! 
Then down the lawns I ran with headlong 

haste. 
Through paths and turnings often trod by 

day. 
Till guided by mine ear I found the place, 
Where that damned wizard, hid in sly dis- 
guise, 
(For so by certain signs I knew) had met 
Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 
The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey. 
Who gently asked if he had seen such two. 
Supposing him some neighbor villager. 
Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed 
Ye were the two she meant; with that I 

sprung 
Into swift flight, tiU I had found you here ; 
But further know I not. 



658 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



2 Be. night and shades, 
How are ye joined with hell in triple knot, 
Against the unarmed weakness of one virgin. 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 
You gave me, brother ? 

1 Bii. Yes, and keep it still, 
Lean on it safely ; not a period 
Shall be unsaid for me ; against the threats 
Of Malice or of Sorcery, or that power 
"Which erring men call Chance, this I hold 

firm. 
Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt. 
Surprised by unj ust force, but not enthralled ; 
Yea, even that which Mischief meant most 

harm. 
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory; 
But evil on itself shall back recoil. 
And mix no more with goodness, when at 

last, 
Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, 
It shall be in eternal, restless change 
Self-fed, and self-consumed ,• if this fail. 
The pillared firmament is rottenness, 
And earth's base built on stubble. But come, 

let 's on. 
Against th' opposing will and arm of Heaven 
May never this just sword be lifted up ; 
But for that damned magician, let him be 

girt 
With all the grisly legions that troop 
Under the sooty flag of Acheron, 
Harpies and hydras, or all the monstrous 

forms 
'Twixt Africa and Ind, I '11 find him out. 
And force him to restore his purchase back. 
Or drag him by the curls to a foul death, 
Cursed as his life. 

Spi. Alas ! good venturous youth, 
I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise ; 
But here thy sword can do thee little stead. 
Far other arms and other weapons must 
Be those that quell the might of hellish 

charms ; 
He with his bare wand can unthread thy 

joints. 
And crumble all thy sinews. 

1 Be. Why, prithee, shepherd. 
How durst thou then thyself approach so 

near 
As to make this relation ? 
Spi. Care, and utmost shifts 



How to secure the lady from surprisal. 
Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad, 
Of small regard to see to, yet well skilled 
In every virtuous plant and healing herb 
That spreads her verdant leaf to th' morning 

ray: 
He loved me well, and oft would beg me 

sing. 
Which when I did, he on the tender grass 
Would sit, and hearken even to ecstasy, 
And in requital ope his leathern scrip. 
And shew me simples of a thousand names, 
Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. 
Among the rest a small unsightly root. 
But of divine eff'ect, he culled me out ; 
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, 
But in another country, as he said. 
Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this 

soil — 
Unknown, and like esteemed, and the dull 

swain 
Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon ; 
And yet more medicinal is it than that moly 
That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave ; 
He called it hsemony, and gave it me. 
And bade me keep it as of sovereign use 
'Gainst all enchantments, mildew, blast, oi 

damp. 
Or ghastly furies' apparition. 
I pursed it up; but little reckoning made. 
Till now that this extremity compelled ; 
But now I find it true ; for by this means 
I knew the foul enchanter, though disguised 
Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells. 
And yet came oflf; if you have this abou< 

you 
(As I will give you when we go), you may 
Boldly assault the necromancer's hall ; 
Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 
And brandished blade, rush on him, break 

his glass, 
And shed the luscious liquor on tlie ground. 
But seize his wand ; though he and his cursed 

crew 
Fierce sign of battle make, and menace high. 
Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoke, 
Yet will they soon retire if he but shrink. 
1 Be. Thyrsis, lead on apace, I '11 follow 

thee, 
And some good angel bear a shield before 

ns. 



COMUS. 



659 



The scene changes to a stately palace^ set out 
icith all manner of dcliciousness ; soft mu- 
sic^ taMes spread with all dainties. Comus 
appears with his roMle^ and the Lady set in 
an enchanted chair, to whom he offers his 
glasSf which she puts ly, and goes alout to 
rise. 

Com. Nay, lady, sit! if I but wave this 

wand, 
Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster, 
And you a statue, or as Daphne was 
Eoot-bound, that fled Apollo. 

Lad. Fool, do not boast ! 
Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
With all thy charms, although this corporal 

rind 
rhou hast immanacled, while Heaven sees 

good. 
Com. "Why are you vexed, lady ? why do 

you frown? 
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger ; from these 

gates 
Sorrow flies far ; see, here be all the pleasures 
That Fancy can beget on youthful thoughts, 
When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns 
Brisk as the April buds in primrose-season. 
And first behold this cordial julep here, 
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds, 
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups 

mixed ; 
iTot that Nepenthes, which the wife of Thone 
In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, 
Is of such power to stir up joy as this. 
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
And to those dainty limbs which nature lent 
For gentle usage, and soft delicacy ? 
But you invert the covenants of her trust. 
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower. 
With that which you received on other terms, 
Scorning the unexempt condition 
By which all mortal frailty must subsist. 
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain, 
That have been tired all day without repast. 
And timely rest have wanted ; but fair virgin, 
This will restore all soon. 

Lad. 'T will not, false traitor — 
'T will not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banished from thy tongue with 

lies. 



Was this the cottage, and the safe abode. 
Thou told'st me of? What grim aspects are 

these. 
These ugly-headed monsters? Mercy guard 

me I 
Hence with thy brewed enchantments, foul 

deceiver ! 
Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence 
With visored falsehood and base forgery ? 
And would'st thou seek again to trap me here 
With liquorish baits, fit to insnare a brute ? 
Were it a draft for Juno when she banquets, 
I would not taste thy treasonous offer ; none 
But such as are good men can give good things. 
And that which is not good is not delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite. 

Com. foolishness of men ! that lend their 
ears 
To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur, 
And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub, 
Praising the lean and sallow abstinence. 
Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth 
With such a full and un withdrawing hand. 
Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and 

flocks. 
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, 
But all to please, and sate the curious taste ? 
And set to work millions of spinning worms, 
That in their green shops weave the smooth- 
haired silk 
To deck her sons ; and that no corner might 
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins 
She hutcht th' all-worshipped ore, and pre- 
cious gems 
To store her children with : if all the world 
Should in a pet of temp'rance feed on pulse, 
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but 

frieze, 
Th' AU-giver would be unthanked, would be 

nnpraised. 
Not half his riches known, and yet despised. 
And we should serve him as a grudging mas- 
ter. 
As a penurious niggard of his wealth. 
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons, 
Who would be quite surcharged with her own 

weight, 
And strangled with her waste fertility, 
Th' earth cumbered, and the winged air 

darked with plumes. 
The herds would over-multitude their lords, 



560 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



The sea o'erfraught would swell, and th' nn- 

sought diamonds 
"Would so imblaze tlie forehead of the deep, 
And so bestud with stars, that thej below 
Would grow inured to light, and come at last 
To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows. 
List, lady, be not coy, and be not cozened 
With that same vaunted name, Virginity. 
Beauty is l^ature's coin, must not be hoarded. 
But must be current, and the good thereof 
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, 
Unsavory in th' enjoyment of itself; 
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 
It withers on the stalk with languished head. 
Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be shewn 
In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, 
Where most may wonder at the workman- 
ship; 
It is for homely features to keep home. 
They had their name thence; coarse com- 
plexions 
And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply 
The sampler, and to tease the housewife?s 

wool. 
What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that. 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn ? 
There was another meaning in these gifts ; 
Think what, and be advised, you are but 
young yet. 
Lad. I had not thought to have unlocked 
my lips 
In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
Would think to charm my judgment, as mine 

eyes, 
Obtruding false rules pranked in Eeason's 

garb. 
I hate when Vice can bolt her arguments. 
And Virtue has no tongue to check her pride. 
Impostor, do not charge most innocent ]!Tature 
As if she would her children should be riotous 
With her abundance ; she, good cateress, 
Means her provision only to the good, 
That live according to her sober laws, 
And holy dictate of spare temperance ; 
If every just man, that now pines with want, 
Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
Of that which lewdly-pampered luxury 
NTow heaps upon some few with vast excess, 
Nature's full blessings would be weU dispensed 
In unsuperfluous even proportion, 
And she no whit enciimbered with her store ; 



And then the Giver would be better thanked. 
His praise due paid ; for swinish Gluttony 
Ne'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous 

feast, 
But with besotted base ingratitude 
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I 

go on? 
Or have I said enough ? To him that dares 
Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous 

words 
Against the sun-clad power of Chastity, 
Fain would I something say, yet to what 

end? 
Thou hast not ear, nor soul, to apprehend 
The sublime notion and high mystery 
That must be uttered to unfold the sage 
And serious doctrine of Virginity ; 
And thou art worthy that thou should'st not 

know 
More happiness than this thy present lot. 
Eiijoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric. 
That hath so well been taught her dazzling 

fence, 
Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced ; 
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled worth 
Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt 

spirits 
To such a flame of sacred vehemence 
That dumb things would be moved to sym- 
pathize. 
And the brute earth would lend her nerves, 

and shake. 
Till all thy magic structures, reared so high. 
Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. 

Com. She fables not; I feel that I do fear 
Her words set off by some superior power ; 
And though not mortal, yet a cold shudder 

ing dew 
Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of Jove 
Speaks thunder, and the chains of Erebus, 
To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble. 
And try her yet more strongly. Come, no 

more; 
This is mere moral babble, and direct 
Against the canon laws of our foundation ; 
I must not suffer this; yet 'tis but the lees 
And settlings of a melancholy blood. 
But this will cure all straight; one sip of this 
Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight 
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and 

taste — 



COMUS 



561 



The Beothers tu%1i in with swords drawn^ 
wrest his glass out of Ms hand^ and hrealc 
it against the ground ; his rout malce sign 
of resistance, dut are all driven in ; the 
attendant Spirit comes in. 

Spi. What ! have you let the falsfe enchanter 
'scape ? 
♦ O ye mistook! ye should have snatched his 
wand 
And bound him fast: without his rod re- 
versed, 
And backward mutters of dissevering power, 
"We cannot free the lady that sits here 
In stony fetters fixed, and motionless. 
Yet stay! be not disturbed; now I bethink 

me, 
Some other means I have which may be used. 
Which once of Meliboeus old I learnt, 
The soothest shepherd that e'er piped on 
plains. 
There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, 
That with moist curb sways the smooth Sev- 
ern stream; 
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure ; 
Whilome she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the sceptre from his father Brute. 
She, guileless damsel, flying the mad pursuit 
Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen, 
Commended her fair innocence to the flood, 
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing 

course. 
The water-nymphs that in the bottom played. 
Held up their pearled wrists and took her in. 
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, 
"Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank 

head, 
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe 
In nectared lavers strowed with asphodil. 
And through the porch and inlet of each 

sense 
Dropt in ambrosial oils tiU she revived, 
And underwent a quick immortal change. 
Made goddess of the river ; still she retains 
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve 
Visits the herds along the twilight meadows. 
Helping all urchin blasts, and iU-luck signs 
That the shrewd meddling elf delights to 

make. 
Which she with precious vialed liquors heals ; 
For which the shepherds, at their festivals, 
B6 



Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, 

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her 

stream. 
Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils. 
And, as the old swain said, she can unlock 
The clasping charm, and thaw the mumming 

spell. 
If she be right invoked in warbled song; 
Eor maidenhood she loves, and will be swift 
To aid a virgin, such as was herself. 
In hard besetting need ; this will I try, 
And add the power of some adjuring verse. 

SONG. 

Sabeina fair. 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; 

Listen, for dear Honor's sake. 

Goddess of the silver lake, 
Listen and save ! 
Listen, and appear to us 
In name of great Oceanus ; 
By th' earth-shaking Neptune's mace. 
And Tethy's grave majestic pace; 
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look, 
And the Carpathian wizard's hook ; 
By scaly Triton's winding shell. 
And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell; 
By Leucothea's lovely hands. 
And her son that rules the strands; 
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet, 
And the songs of Sirens sweet ; 
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb. 
And fair Ligea's golden comb, 
Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks, 
Sleeking her soft alluring locks ; 
By all the nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams with wily glance — 
Else, rise, and heave thy rosy head 
From thy coral-paven bed, 
And bridle in thy headlong wave. 
Till thou our summons answered have. 
Listen and save ! 

Sabeina rises, attended ly water nympTis, and 
sings. 

By the rushy-fringed bank. 
Where grows the wiUow and the osier dank, 



662 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Mj sliding chariot stays, 

Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen 
Of tiirkois hlue, and emerald green, 

That in the channel strays ; 
Whilst from off the waters fleet 
Thus I set my printless feet 
O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 

That hends not as I tread ; 
Gentle swain, at thy request 
I am here. 
Spi. Goddess dear, 

"We implore thy powerful hand 

To undo the charmed hand 

Of true virgin here distressed, 

Through the force and through the wile 

Of unblest enchanter vile. 

Sab. Shepherd, 't is my office best 

To help ensnared chastity : 

Brightest lady, look on me ! 

Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 

Drops that from my fountain pure 

I have kept of precious cure. 

Thrice upon thy fingers' tip, 

Thrice upon thy rubied lip ; 

Next this marble venomed seat. 

Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, 

I touch with chaste palms moist and cold : 

Now the spell hath lost his hold ; 

And I must haste ere morning hour 

To wait in Amphitrite's bower. 



SABEmA descends^ and tJie Lady rises out of 
Tier seat. 



Spi. Virgin, daughter of Locrine, 
Sprung from old Anchises' line, 
May thy brimmed waves for this 
Their full tribute never miss 
From a thousand petty rills. 
That tumble down the snowy hills ; 
Summer drought, or singed air, 
NTever scorch thy tresses fair, 
Nor wet October's torrent flood 
Thy molten crystal fill with mud ; 
May thy billows roll ashore 
The beryl, and the golden ore ; 
May thy lofty head be crowned 
With many a tower and terrace round, 
And here and there thy banks upon 
With groves of myrrh and cinnamon. 



Come, lady! while Heaven lends us grace, 
Let us fiy this cursed place. 
Lest the sorcerer us entice 
With some other new device. 
Not a waste or needless sound. 
Till we come to holier ground ; 
I shall be your faithful guide 
Through this gloomy covert wide ; 
And not many furlongs thence 
Is your father's residence. 
Where this night are met in state 
Many a friend to gratulate 
His wished presence, and beside 
All the swains that near abide, 
With jigs and rural dance resort ; 
We shall catch them at their sport. 
And our sudden coming there 
Will double all their mirth and cheer ; 
Come, let us haste, the stars grow high. 
But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky. 

TJie scene cJianges^ presenting Ludlow town 
and the Presidenfs castle; then come in 
country dancers ; after them the attendant 
Spieit, with the two Beothees and the 
Lady. 

SONG. 

Spi. Back, shepherds, back ! enough your 
play 
Till nest sun-shine holiday ; • 

Here be without duck or nod 
Other trippings to be trod — 
Of lighter toes, and such court guise 
As Mercury did first devise 
With the mincing Dryades 
On the lawns, and on the leas. 

This second song presents them to their father 
and mother. 

Noble lord, and lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight ; 
Here behold, so goodly grown. 
Three fair branches of your own ; 
Heaven hath timely tried their youth. 
Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 
And sent them here through hard assays, 
With a croAvn of deathless praise, 
To triumph in victorious dance 
O'er sensual folly and intemperance. 



♦ 



HYLAS. 



563 



The dances ended^ the Spieit epihguises. 

Spi. To the ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that lie 
"Where Day never shuts his eye, 
Up in the broad fields of the sky. 
There I suck the liquid air 
All amidst the gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree. 
Along the crisped shades and bowers 
Eevels the spruce and jocund Spring; 
The Graces, and the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
Thither all their bounties bring ; 
There eternal Summer dwells, 
And west- winds with musky wing 
About the cedared alleys fling 
Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 
Iris there with humid bow 
Waters the odorous banks that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hue 
Than her purfled scarf can shew, 
And drenches with Elysian dew 
(List, mortals, if your ears be true) 
Beds of hyacinth and roses, 
"Where young Adonis oft reposes, 
"Waxing well of his deep wound 
In slumber soft, and on the ground 
Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen ; 
But far above, in spangled sheen, 
Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced. 
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced. 
After her wand'ring labors long. 
Till free consent the gods among 
Make her his eternal bride. 
And from her fair unspotted side 
Two blissful twins are to be born, 
Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 

But now my task is smoothly done ; 
I can fly, or I can run, 
Quickly to the green earth's end, 
"Where the bowed welkin low doth bend. 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals that would follow me. 
Love Yirtue ; she alone is free ; 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime ; 
Or, if Yirtue feeble were, 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 

John Milton. 



HYLAS. 

Stoem-weaeied Argo slept upon the water. 

N"o cloud was seen ; on blue and craggy Ida 

The hot noon lay, and on the plain's enamel ; 

Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander. 

" Why should 1 haste ? " said young and rosy 
Hylas : 

" The seas were rough, and long the way from 
Colchis. 

Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Ja- 
son, 

Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther ; 

The shields are piled, the listless oars sus- 
pended 

On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bonds- 
men 

Doze on the benches. They may wait for 
water. 

Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scaman- 
der." 

So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys, 

And putting down his urn, he stood a mo- 
ment. 

Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blos- 
soms 

That spangled thick the lovely Dardan mead- 
ows. 

Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his bus- 
kins, 

And felt with shrinking feet the crispy ver- 
dure; 

leaked, save one light robe that from his 
shoulder 

Hung to his knee, the youthful flush reveal- 
ing 

Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with com- 
ing manhood. 

Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty. 

Now to the river's sandy marge advancing. 

He dropped the robe, and raised his head ex- 
ulting 

In the clear sunshine, that with beam em- 
bracing 

Held him against Apollo's glowing bosom. 

For sacred to Latona's son is Beauty, 

Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling. 

A joy indeed, a Hving joy, was Hylas, 



664 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Whence Jove-begotten Heracles, tlie mighty, 
To men though terrible, to him was gentle, 
Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter 
When the boy stole his club, or from his 

shoulders 
Dragged the huge paws of the Nemsean lion. 

The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from 
his forehead. 

Fell soft about his temples ; manhood's blos- 
som 

!N"ot yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly 
I Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lips' 
parting. 

Like a loose bow, that just has launched its 
arrow. 

His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and 
beamy. 

Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heav- 
en; 

Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulders rounded 

To the white arms and whiter breast between 
them. 

Downward, the supple lines had less of soft- 
ness: 

His back was like a god's; his loins were 
moulded 

As if some pulse of power began to waken ; 

The springy fulness of his thighs, outswerv- 

Sloped to his knee, and, lightly dropping 

downward, 
Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, 

of motion. 

He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored 

In the still wave, and stretched his foot to 
press it 

On the smooth sole that answered at the sur- 
face: 

Alas! the shape dissolved in glimmering 
fragments. 

Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching 

Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the 
waters 

Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly 
deeper. 

Till on his breast the river's cheek was pil- 
lowed, 

And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple 

Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's bosom 



His white, round shoulder shed the dripping 

crystal. 
There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion. 
The lucid coolness folding close around him, 
The lily-cradling ripples murmured, " Hylas ! " 
He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine 
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water, 
And still the ripples murmured, "Hylas! 

Hylas!" 
He thought: "The voices are but ear-born 

music. 
Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling 
Prom some high cliff that tops a Thracian 

valley ; 
So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontus, 
Have heard the sea waves hammer Argo's 

forehead. 
That I misdeem the fluting of this current 
Por some lost nymph — " Again the murmur, 

"Hylas!" 
And with the sound a cold, smooth arm 

around him 
Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green 

darkness 
Glimmered on either side a shining bosom — 
Glimmered, uprising slow ; and ever closer 
Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his 

shoulders. 
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple 

tangles, 
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound 

him. 
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplift- 
ing, 
They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral. 
And once again there came a murmur, " fly- 
las! 
0, come with us ! O, follow where we wan- 
der 
Deep down beneath the green, translucent 

ceiling — 
Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander 
With cool white buds we braid our purple 

tresses. 
Lulled by the bubbling waves around us 

stealing ! 
Thou fair Greek boy, come with us ! 0, 

follow 
Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis 

riot, 
But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet, 



HYLAS. 



565 



"Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hol- 
low! 

"We have no love ; alone, of all the immortals, 

"We have no love. 0, love ns, we who press 
thee 

"With faithful arms, though cold, — whose lips 
caress thee, — 

Who hold thy beauty prisoned! Loye us, 
Hylas!" 

The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, call- 
ing 

Still as it faded, " Come with us! follow ! " 

The boy grew chill to feel their twining pres- 
sure 

Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly 
striving, 

Down from the noonday brightness. " Leave 
me, Naiads ! 

Leave me!" he cried; "the day to me is 
dearer 

Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean's 
quiet. 

I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure : 

I would not change this flexile, warm exist- 
ence. 

Though swept by storms, and shocked by 
Jove's dread thunder. 

To be a king beneath the dark-green waters." 

Still moaned the humid lips, between their 
kisses, 

" We have no love. 0, love us, we who love 
thee ! " 

And came in answer, thus, the words of Hy- 
las: 

HMy love is mortal. For the Argive maid- 
ens 

I keep the kisses which your lips would 
ravish. 

Unlock your cold white arms — ^take from my 
shoulder 

The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses. 

Let me return : the wind comes down from 
Ida, 

And soon the galley, stirring from her slum- 
ber, 

Will fi-et to ride where Pelion's twilight 
shadow ' 

Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city. 

I am not yours — I cannot braid the lilies 

In your wet hair nor on your argent bosoms 



Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling 
voices. 

Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal be- 
ing,— 

Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo ! 

For I am thine : thy fire, thy beam, thy mu- 
sic. 

Dance in my heart and flood my sense with 
rapture ; 

The joy, the warmth and passion now awa- 
ken. 

Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleep- 
ing. 

0, leave me, Naiads! loose your chill em- 
braces. 

Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining." 

But still with unrelenting arms they bound 
him. 

And stiU, accordant, flowed their watery 
voices : 

"We have thee now — we hold thy beauty 
.prisoned ; 

O, come with us beneath the emerald waters ! 

We have no love ; we love thee, rosy Hylas. 

0, love us, who shall never more release 
thee — 

Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cra- 
dle 

Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean, 

Where now we bear thee, clasped in our em- 
braces." 

And slowly, slowly sank the amorous Naiads ; 

The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through 
the water. 

Pleading for help; but Heaven's immortal 
archer 

Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his 
forehead ; 

And last, the thick, bright curls a moment 
floated. 

So warm and silky that the stream upbore 
them. 

Closing reluctant, as he sank for ever. 

The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros. 
Argo was tugging at her chain ; for freshly 
Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless 

billows. 
The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors, 
And up the mast was heaved the snowy 

canvas. 



566 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



But mighty Heracles, the Jove-begotten, 
Unmiiidfal stood, beside the cool Scamander, 
Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys 
Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay before 

him: 
And when he called, expectant, "Hylas! 

Hylas ! " 
The empty echoes made Mm answer — "Hy- 
las!" 

Batabd Taylob. 



EHCEOUS. 

God sends his teachers unto every age. 
To every clime, and every race of men. 
With revelations fitted to their growth 
And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of 

Truth 
Into the selfish rule of one sole race. 
Therefore each form of worship that hath 

swayed 
The life of man, and given it to grasp 
The master-key of knowledge, reverence, 
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right ; 
Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 
The slothful down of pampered ignorance. 
Found in it even a moment's fitful rest. 

There is an instinct in the human heart 
"Which makes that all the fables it hath 

coined. 
To justify the reign of its belief 
And strengthen it by beauty's right divine. 
Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, 
Which, like the hazel-twig, in faithful hands. 
Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. 
For, as in nature naught is made in vain, 
But all things have within their hull of use 
A wisdom and a meaning, which may speak 
Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
Of spirit : so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
Hath fashioned for a solace to itself. 
To make its inspirations suit its creed, 
And from the niggard hands of Falsehood 

wring 
Its needful food of truth, there ever is 
A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, 
Not less than her own works, pure gleams of 

light 



And earnest parables of inward lore. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, 
As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still 
As the immortal freshness of that grace 
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 

A youth named Khoecus, wandering in the 

wood. 
Saw an old oak just trembling to its faU ; 
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree. 
He propped its gray trunk with admiring 

care, 
And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. 
But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind 
That murmured " Ehoecus ! " — 'T was as if the 

leaves. 
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured 

it; 
And, while he paused bewildered, yet again 
It murmured "Khoecus!" softer than a 

breeze. 
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 
What seemed the substance of a happy dream 
Stand there before him, spreading a warm 

glow 
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. 
It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair 
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 
For any that were wont to mate with gods. 
All. naked like a goddess stood she there. 
And like a goddess all too beautiful 
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. 
" Ehoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree — " 
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned 

words. 
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew — 
" And with it I am doomed to live and die ; 
The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 
Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; 
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give. 
And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." 

Then Ehoecus, with a flutter at the heart. 
Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold. 
Answered : " What is there that can satisfy 
The endless craving of the soul but love ? 
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that 
Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." 
After a little pause she said again. 
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 
"I give it, Khoecus, though a perilous gift ; 



RH(ECUS. 



567 



An hour before the sunset meet me here." 
And straightway there was nothing he could 

see 
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy 

oak; 
And not a sound came to his straining ears 
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, 
And, far away upon an emerald slope. 
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 

Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, 
Men did not think that happy things were 

dreams 
Because they overstepped the narrow bourne 
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed 
Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful 
To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 
So Ehoecus made no doubt that he was blest ; 
And all along unto the city's gate 
Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he 

walked ; 
The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its 

wont. 
And he could scarce believe he had not 

wings — 
Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his 

veins 
Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. 

Young Ehoecus had a faithful heart enough. 
But one that in the present dwelt too much. 
And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er 
Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in 

that. 
Like the contented peasant of a vale. 
Deemed it the world, and never looked be- 
yond. 
So, haply meeting in the afternoon 
Some comrades who were playing at the dice. 
He joined them and ^orgot all else beside. 

The dice were rattling at the merriest. 
And Rhcecus, who had met but sorry luck, 
Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw. 
When through the room there hummed a yel- 
low bee 
That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped 

legs. 
As if to light. And Rhoecus laughed and 
said. 



Feeling how red and flushed he was with 

loss, 
" By Yenus ! does he take me for a rose ? " 
And brushed him off with rough, impatient 

hand. 
But still the bee came back, and thrice again, 
Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath. 
Then through the window flew the wounded 

bee; 
And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes. 
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 
Against the red disc of the setting sun, — 
And instantly the blood sank from his heart, 
As if its very walls had caved away. 
Without a word he turned, and rushing forth, 
Ran madly through the city and the gate, 
And o'er the plain, which now the woods 

long shade. 
By the low sun thrown forward broad and 

dim. 
Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. 

Quite spent and out of breath, he reached 

the tree ; 
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
The low voice murmur " Rhoecus ! " close at 

hand — 
Whereat he looked around him, but could see 
Nought but the deepening glooms beneath 

the oak. 
Then sighed the voice, " O, Rhoecus ! never 

more 
Shalt thou behold me, or by day or night — 
Me, who would fain have blest thee with a 

love 
More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
Filled up with nectar any mortal heart ; 
But thou didst scorn my humble messenger. 
And sent'st him back to me with bruised 

wings. 
We spirits only show to gentle eyes — 
We ever ask an undivided love ; 
And he who scorns the least of Nature's 

works 
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. 
Farewell! for thou canst never see me more." 

Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and groaned 

aloud. 
And cried, " Be pitiful ! forgive me yet 
This once, and I shall never need it more ! " 



668 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


"Alas!" the voice returned, "'tis thou art 


And at midnight from his grave 


blind. 


The trumpeter arose. 


Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive, 


And, mounted on his horse. 


But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; 


A loud, shrill blast he blows. 


Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 




With that again there murmured "Never- 


On airy coursers then 


more ! " 


The cavalry are seen — 


And Rhoecus after heard no other sound, 


Old squadrons, erst renowned — 


Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves. 


Gory and gashed, I ween. 


Like the long surf upon a distant shore, 




Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. 


Beneath the casque their skuUs 


The night had gathered round him ; o'er the 


Smile grim ; and proud their air, 


plain 


As in their bony hands 


The city sparkled with its thousand lights, 


Their long, sharp swords they bare. 


And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 




Harshly and like a curse ; above, the sky, 


At midnight from his tomb 


"With all its bright sublimity of stars. 


The chief awoke and rose, 


Deepened, and on his forehead smote the 


And, followed by his staff. 


breeze ; 


With slow steps on he goes. 


Beauty was all around him, and delight; 




But from that eve he was alone on earth. 


A little hat he wears. 


James Kitssell Lowell. 


A coat quite plain wears he ; 




A little sword, for arms, 




At his left side hangs free. 
O'er the vast plain the moon 




THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 


A paly lustre threw ; 




The man with the little hat 


At midnight from his grave 


The troops goes to review. 


The drummer woke and rose, 




And beating loud the drum, 


The ranks present their arms — 


Forth on his errand goes. 


Deep rolls the drum the while ; 




Recovering then, the troops 


Stirred by his fleshless arms. 


Before the chief defile. 


The drumsticks rise and fall ; 




He beats the loud retreat. 


Captains and generals round. 


Reveille and roU-caU. 


In circles formed, appear ; 




The chief to the first a word 


So strangely rolls that drum, 


Now whispers in his ear. 


So deep it echoes round. 




Old soldiers in their graves 


The word goes round the ranks. 


To life start at the sound : 


Resounds along the line ; 


Both they in farthest North, 


That word they give is — France ! 


Stiff in the ice that lay. 


The answer— aS'^. EeUne ! 


And they who warm repose 




Beneath Italic clay ; 


'T is there, at midnight hour. 




The grand review, they say. 


Below the mud of Nile, 


Is by dead Caesar held 


And 'neath Arabian sand, 


In the Champs-Elysees ! 


Their burial-place they quit. 


Joseph Christian ton Zedlitz. (German.) 


And soon to arms they stand. 


Anonymous Translation. 



RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



669 



KIME OF THE ANCIENT MAE- 
INER. 

IN SEVEN PAET8. 



An An- It is an Ancient Mariner, 
Sermeet- And he stoppeth one of three : 
gluan^s ' " By thy long gray beard and gUtter- 

bidden to jjjg- qyq 

a wedding * " ' 

feast, and Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

detaineth 
one. 

The Bridegroom's doors are opened 

wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 

The guests are met, the feast is set — 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand : 
" There was a ship," quoth he. 
"Hold off! imhand me, gray-beard 

loon!"— 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



The Wed- 
ding- 
Guest is 
spell- 
bound by 
the eye of 
the old 
sea-faring 
man, and 
constrain- 
ed to hear 
his tale. 



He holds him with his glittering 

eye— 
The Wedding-Guest stood still ; 
He listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone — 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

"The ship was cheered, the harbor 

cleared •, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the light-house top. 



The Mari- 
ner tells 
how the 
ship sailed 
southward 
with a 
good wind 
and fair 
weather, 
till it 
reached 
the Line. 



The sun came up upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he ; 

And he shone bright, and on 

right 
Went down into the sea ; 



the 



Higher and higher every day, 
Till over the mast at noon — " 
The Wedding-Guest here beat his 

breast. 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The Wed- 
ding- 
Guest 
heareth 
the bridal 
music ; 
but the 
Mariner 
continu- 
eth his 
tale. 



The bride hath paced into the hall — 
Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his 

breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner : 



" And now the storm-blast came, and The ship 

' drawn by 

he a storm to- 

Was tyrannous and strong ; Jouth ^ 

He struck with his o'ertaking wings, P^^®- 
And chased us south along. 



With sloping masts and dipping 

prow — 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head — 
The ship drove fast ; loud roared the 

blast. 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 

snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 



And through the drifts the snowy The land 

T^ of ice, and 

elms of fearful 

Did send a dismal sheen ; whSJno 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts weJ\y/°^ 
ken — 



thing was 
to be seen. 



The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around ; 

It cracked and growled, and roared 

and howled, 
Like noises in a swound ! 



At length did cross an Albatross — 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God's name. 



Till a 
great sea- 
bird, call- 
ed the Al- 
batross, 
came 
through 
the snow- 
fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality. 



570 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Andlo! 
the Alba- 
tross 

proveth a 
bird of 
good 

omen, and 
followeth 
the ship as 
it return- 
ed north- 
ward 
through 
fog and 
floating 
ice. 



It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 

And a good south wind sprang up 

behind ; 
The Albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
It perched for vespers nine ; 
Whiles all the night, through fog- 
smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



The An- " God save thee, Ancient Mariner ! 

CI Gut ^f Rr* 

inerin- From the fiends that plague thee 

hospitably 
killeth the 



thus !— 



Pjo^^s^^ird ^}^j look'st thou so ? 

omen. crosS-bow 

I shot the Albatross." 



-"With my 



PAET II. 

" The sun now rose upon the right — 
Out of the sea came he, 
StiU hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew 

behind ; 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
iN'or any day- for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hoUo. 



His ship- And I had done a hellish thing, 

Tn fl.i'.ftfi 

cry out And it would work 'em woe ; 
^ffl For all averred I had kiUed the bird 
cient Mar- That made the breeze to blow : 

mer, for 

killing the Ah wretch I said they, the bird to 

bird of , "^ ' 

good luck. slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 



But when jN^or dim nor red, like God's own 
the fog ' 

cleared head 

Justify ^ The glorious sun uprist ; 
and thul' Then all averred I had killed the bird 
™a^^ That brought the fog and mist : 
selves ac- 'T was right, said they, such birds to 

complices , 

in the Slay, 

orime. ^'hat bring the fog and mist. 



The fair breeze blew, the white foam T^^e fair 

breeze 



flew, 

The furrow followed free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 



en till it reached the Line. 



continues; 
the ship 
enters the 
Pacific 
Ocean, 
and sails 
north- 
ward, ev- 



the 



Down dropt the breeze, 

dropt down — 
'T was sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea. 



sails The ship 
hath been 
suddenly 
becalmed; 



And the 

Albatross 
begins to 
be aveng- 
ed. 



All in a hot and copper sky 
The bloody sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck — ^nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot ; O Christ ! 

That ever this should be ! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with 

legs 
Upon the slimy sea ! 

About, about, in reel and rout. 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 



And some in dreams assured were ^ Spirit 

had fol- 

Of the Spu'it that plagued us so ; lowed 
Nine fathom deep he had followed one^fthe 

,,a invisible 

"'=* inhabit- 

From the land of mist and snow. ants of this 

planet, 
neither 
departed 
souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned Jew, Jo- 
sephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael 
Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, 
and there is no climate or element without one or more. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



671 



And every tongue, througli utter 

drought, 
"Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



The ship- 
mates, in 
their sore 
distress, 
would fain 
throw the 
whole 
guilt on 
the An- 
cient Ma- 
riner: in 
sign 

whereof 
they hang 
the dead 
sea-bird 
round his 
neck. 



The An- 
cient Ma- 
riner bc- 
holdeth a 
sign in the 
element 
afar off. 



Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



PAET m. 

Theee passed a weary time. Each 

throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye — 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye ! — 
When, looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 



At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist; 

It moved and moved, and took 

last 
A certain shape, I wist — 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared ; 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 



at 



At its 
nearer ap- 
proach it 
seemeth 
him to be 
a ship ; 
and at a 
dear ran- 
som he 
freeth his 
speech 
from the 
bonds of 
thirst. 



With throats unslaked, with black 

lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter di'ought all dumb we 

stood! 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



A flash of 
joy. 



With throats unslaked, with black 

lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call ; 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath 'drew 

in, 
As they were drinking all. 



I cried, she tacks no-^J^^^^or- 

' ror fol- 



lows. For 
can it be a 
ship that 
comes 
onward 
without 
wind or 
tide? 



See ! see ! 

more! 

Hither to work us weal — 
Without a breeze, without a tide. 
She steadies with upright keel ! 

The western wave was all a-flame ; 
The day was well nigh done ; 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright sun, 
When that strange shape drove sud- 
denly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 



And straight the sun was flecked ijseem- 
with bars, but the 

(Heaven's mother send us grace !) of a sWp. 

As if through a dungeon-grate he 
peered 

With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! thought I — and my heart beat 

loud — 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the 

sun. 
Like restless gossameres? 

Are those her ribs through which 4?^^*^ 

° ribs are 

the sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that woman all her crew? 



bars on 
the face of 
the set- 
ting sun. 

Is that a death ? and are there two ? P^ spec- 

tre-wo- 

Is Death that woman's mate ? man and 

her death- 
mate, and 
no other on board the skeleton ship. 

Her lips were red, her looks were 

free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold ; ^Mike^* 

Her skin was as white as leprosy : crew ! 
The night-mare, Life-in-Death, was 

she. 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



The naked hulk alongside came. Death and 
And the twain were casting dice : Death 
' The game is done ! I 've won ! I 've JfJ^®^ ^^^ 

won ! ' tlie ship's 

crGw s.iid 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. she (the 

latter) 
winneth 
the Ancient Mariner. 



572 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



The sun's rim dips, the stars rush 
out, 
No twi- At one stride comes the dark : 

light with- ' 

in the With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
the Sun^ Off shot the spectre bark. 

At the ris- "W'e listened, and looked sideways 

ing of the ' *' 

moon. up ; 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ; 

The stars were dim, and thick the 

night — 
The steersman's face by his lamp 

gleamed white ; 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright 

star 
Within the nether tip. 

One after One after one, by the star-dogged 

another. ^° 

moon. 
Too quick for groan or sigh. 
Each turned his face with a ghastly 

pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 

His ship- Four times fifty living men, 
drop down (And I heard nor sigh nor groan !) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 



dead. 



But Life- The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
begins her They fled to bliss or woe ! 
tte'^An^ And every soul it passed me by, 
cient Mar- Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 

mer. "^ 



PART IV. 



The Wed- " I FEAR thee. Ancient Mariner ! 
&efh ''* I fear thy skinny hand ! 

s^trit is -^^^ *^^^ ^^'^ ^^^^' ^^^ lank, 
talking to brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 

And thy skinny hand so brown." — 

But the "Fear not, fear not, thou "Wedding- 
Ancient /-( , 

Mariner Guest ! 

hlm'i^f his This body dropt not down. 

bodily life, 

and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance. 



Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful ! 
And they all dead did lie ; 
And a thousand thousand 

things 
Lived on — and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 



Hede- 
spiseth 
the crea- 



slimy *"'^« "^ 



the calm. 



And en- 
vied that 
they 
should 
live, and 
so many 
lie dead. 



I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea and the sea 

and the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their But the 

T 1 curse liv- 

hmbs— eth for 

]^or rot nor reek did they ; es^of the 

The look with which they looked on ^ead men. 

me 

Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high ; 
But ! more horrible than that 
Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 

curse — 
And yet I could not die. 



The moving moon went up the sky. In his 

AT 1 T 1 1 • 1 loneliness 

And nowhere did abide ; and fixed- 

Softly she was going up, ^^f^^^^^^^^ 

And a star or two beside — toAvards 

the jour- 
neyins 
moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move on- 
ward ; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, 
and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and 
their own natunil homes, which they enter unannounced, 
as lords that are certainly expected; and yet there is a 
silent joy at their arrival. 



KIME OF THE ANCIENT MAEINER. 



573 



Her beams bemocked the sultry 

main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow 

lay 
The charmed water burnt alwaj, 
A still and awful red. 



By tie Beyond the shadow of the ship 
light of ^ "^ , _ ^ ^ ^ 

the moon 1 watched the water-snakes ; 

eth God's" They moved in tracks of shining 
cre^atures ^i^ite; 

great And when they reared, the elfish 
calm. -. , , -^ ' 

hght 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire — 
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam; and every 

track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 

Their Q happy living things ! no tongue 
and their Their beauty might declare ; ♦ 

appiness. ^ spj-jng of love gushed from my 
heart. 



My lips were wet, my throat was 

cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs ; 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 



And soon T heard a roaring wind — He hear- 

-r, -,. -, . eth sounds 

It did not come anear ; and seeth 

But with its sound it shook the sails, s,vbtf and 
That were so thin and sere. 



commo- 
tions in 
the sky 
and the 
element. 



He bless- 
eth them 
in his 
heart. 



And I blessed them unaware — 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 



The spell The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
break. And from my neck so free 

The Albatross felloff, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 



PAET V. 

O SLEEP ! it is a gentle thing. 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Hea- 
ven 
That slid into my soul. 



By grace The Silly buckets on the deck, 

of the holy , , , 1 . ' 

Mother, Ihat had so long remained, 

eient Mar- 1 dreamt that they were filled with 

iner is re- ripw • 

freshed "®^ ' 

Avith rain. And when I awoke, it rained. 



The upper air burst into life ; 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ; 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 



And the coming wind did roar more 

loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one 

black cloud— 
The moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and 

still 
The moon was at its side ; 
Like waters shot fi'om some high 

crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag — 
A river steep ajid wide. 



The loud wind never reached thcThebod- 

„-! ,• ies of the 

ship, ship's 

Yet now the ship moved on ! F^w are 

^ . inspired, 

Beneath the lightning and the moon and the 

The dead men gave a groan. moves on 



They groaned, they stirred, they all 

uprose — 
ISTor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 



674 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 



But not 
by the 
souls of 
the men, 
nor by de- 
mons of 
earth or 
middle air, 
but by a 
blessed 
troop of 
angelic 
spirits, 
sent down 
by the in- 
•vocation 
of the 
guardian 
saint. 



The helmsman steered, the ship 

moved on ; 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
"Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless 

tools — 
We were a ghastly crew. 

The Body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee ; 
The body and I pulled at one rope. 
But he said nought to me." 

" I fear thee. Ancient Mariner ! " 
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in 

pain. 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest ; 
For when it dawned they dropped 

their arms. 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through 

their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 



flew each sweet 



sound. 



Then darted to the sun ; 

Slowly the sounds came back again — 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, 
I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are — 
How they seemed to fill the sea and 

air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon — 
A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 



Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe ; 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel, nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and snow 
The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean ; 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her 

length. 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound — 
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned 
I heard, and in my soul discerned. 
Two voices in the air : 

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the 

man? 
By him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross ! 

The spirit who bideth by himself 

In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the 

man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, 'The man hath penance 

done. 
And penance more will do.' 



The lone- 
some spi- 
rit from 
the south- 
pole car- 
ries on the 
ship as far 
as the Line 
in obedi- 
ence to 
the angel- 
ic troop ; 
but still 
requireth 
vengeance 



The polar 
spirit's 
fellow de- 
mons, the 
invisible 
inhabi- 
tants of 
the ele- 
ment, take 
part in his 
wrong ; 
and two of 
them re- 
late, one 
to the 
other, that 
penance, 
k)ng and 
heaVy for 
the An- 
cient Mar- 
iner, hath 
been ac- 
corded to 
the polar 
spirit, who 
returneth 
southward. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



575 



The Mari- 
ner hath 
been cast 
into a 
trance ; for 
the an- 
gelic pow- 
er causeth 
the vessel 
to drive 
northward 
faster than 
human 
life could 
endure. 



The su- 
pernatural 
motion is 
retarded ; 
the Mar- 
iner 
awakes, 
and his 
penance 
begins 
anew. 



FIEST VOICE. 

" ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so 

fast? 
What is the ocean doing?' 

SECOOT) VOICE. 

" ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 

FIEST VOICE. 

" 'But why drives on that ship so fast. 
Without or wave or wind? ' 

SECOND VOICE. 

" ' The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more 

high! 
Or we shall be belated ; 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather ; 

'T was night, calm night — the moon 

was high ; 
The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck. 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they 

died. 
Had never passed away ; 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 



And now this spell was snapt ; once ^'^jj^J^®® 

more expiated. 

I viewed the ocean green. 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And, having once turned round, 

walks on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on 

me, 
Nor sound nor motion made ; 
Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek. 
Like a meadow-gale of Spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
Yet she sailed softly too ; 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
Is this mine own countree ? 

We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
And I with sobs did pray — 
O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass. 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no 

less 
That stands above the rock ; 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 



And the 

Ancient 

Mariner 

beholdeth 

his native 

country. 



516 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



The ansrel- 
ic spirits 
leave the 
dead bod- 
ies. 



And ap- 
pear in 
their own 
forms of 
light. 



The Her- 
mit of the 
wood 



And the bay was white with silent 

light 
Till, rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows 

were, 
In crimson colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were ; 
I turned my eyes upon the deck — 

Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ; 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his 

hand^ — 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his 

hand ; 
IsTo voice did they impart — 
ISTo voice ; but ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the pilot's cheer ; 

My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast ; 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — ^I heard his voice ; 

It is the hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood ; 

He'll shrieve my soul- — he'll wash 

away 
The Albatross's blood. 

PAET VII. 

This hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 



wonder. 



He kneels at morn, and noon, and 

eve — 
He hath a cushion plump ; 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiflp-boat neared — I heard them 

talk: 
' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights, so many and 

fair, 
That signal made but now ? ' 

" ' Strange, bv my faith 1 ' the hermit Approach- 

eth the 
said — ship with 

'And they answered not our cheer ! 
The planks looked warped ! and see 

those sails. 
How thin they are and sere ! 
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along. 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with 

snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf 

below, 
That eats the she-wolf's young.' 

' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' 
The pilot made reply— 
' I am a-feared '— ' Push on, push on ! ' 
Said the hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard : 



The ship 
suddenly 
sinketh. 



Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread ; 
It reached the ship, it split the bay — v 
The ship went down like lead. 



Stunned by that loud and dreadful The An- 
cient Mar- 
sound, iner is 

Which sky and ocean smote, tbl'^piiot's 

Like one that hath been seven days ^^**- 

drowned 
My body lay afloat ; 
But, swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the pilot's boat. 



KIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINEE. 



511 



Upon the whirl where sank the ship 
The boat span round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars ; the pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long ; and all the 

while 
His eyes went to and fro : 
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I 

see, 
The devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The hermit stepped forth from the 

boat, 
And scarcely lie could stand. 



The An- iQ shrieve me, shrieve me, holy 

cient Mar- ' 7 ^ 

iner ear- man ! — 

treateth^' The hermit crossed his brow : 
mft?o'" 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee 

6hrieve gay— 

him; and "^ 

the pen- What manner of man art thou ? ' 

an ce of life 
falls on 
him. 

Forthwith this frame of mine was 

wrenched 
With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale — 
And then it left me free. 



And ever 
and anon 
throngh- 
out his fu- 
ture life 
an agony 
constrain- 
eth him 
to travel 
from land 
to land. 



Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns ; 
And till my ghastly tale is told 
This heart within me bums. 



I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see 
I know the man that must hear me — 
To him my tale I teach. 
37 



What loud uproar bursts from that 

door! 
The wedding-guests are there ; 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are ; 
And hark the little vesper bell. 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

Wedding-Guest 1 this soul hath 

been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea — 
So lonely 't was, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'T is sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray. 

While each to his great Father 

bends — 
Old men, and babes, and loving 

friends, 
And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell ! farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Weddiug-Guest ! 
He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone. And now the Wedding- 
Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 



He went like one that hath been 

stunned. 
And is of sense forlorn; 
A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 

SAirtTEL Tatloe Coleeidge. 



And to 
teach by 
his own 
example, 
love, and 
reverence 
to all 
things, 
that God 
made and 
loveth. 



578 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



KUBLA KHAN. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree, 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, 
Through caverns measureless to man, 
Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round ; 
And there were gardens, bright with sinuous 

rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing 

tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hiUs, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But ! that deep romantic chasm, which 

slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 

seething. 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were 

breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced, 
Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail ; 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and 

ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale, the sacred river 

ran — 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man. 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war. 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves. 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device — 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw ; 



It was an Abyssinian maid, 
And on her dulcimer she played, 
Singing of Mount Abora. 
Could I revive within me 
Her symphony and song. 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That, with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air — 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry. Beware ! beware 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylok Coueeidge. 



THE KAYEN. 

Once, upon a midnight dreary, 
While I pondered, weak and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious 

Yolume of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping. 
Suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, 

Kajyping at my chamber door : 
'"Tis some visitor," I muttered, 

"Tapping at my chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember ! 
It was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember 

Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; 
Yainly I had tried to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — 

Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain 
Eustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic 
Terrors never felt before ; 



THE RAYEN. 519 


So that now, to still the beating 


Not the least obeisance made he ; 


Of my heart, I stood repeating 


Not an instant stopped or stayed he ; 


"'Tis some visitor entreating 


But, with mien of lord or lady. 


Entrance at my chamber door — 


Perched above my chamber door — 


Some late visitor entreating 


Perched upon a bust of Pallas 


Entrance at my chamber door ; — 


Just above my chamber door — 


This it is, and nothing more." 


Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 


Presently my soul grew stronger ; 


Then this ebony bird beguiling 


Hesitating then no longer. 


My sad fancy into smiling, 


"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly 


By the grave and stern decorum 


Your forgiveness I implore ; 


Of the countenance it wore ; 


But the fact is I was napping. 


" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 


And so gently you came rapping, 


Thou," I said, " art sure no craven — 


And so faintly you came tapping, 


Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven. 


Tapping at my chamber door, 


Wandering from the Mghtly shore- 


That I scarce was sure I heard you," — 


Tell me what thy lordly name is 


Here I opened wide the door : 


On the Night's Plutonian shore ! " 


Darkness there, and nothing more ! 


Quoth the raven "Nevermore." 


Deep into that darkness peering, 


Much I marvelled this ungainly 


Long I stood there wondering, fearing, 


Fowl to hear discourse so plainly — 


Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 


Though its answer little meaning. 


Ever dared to dream before ; 


Little relevancy bore ; 


But the silence was unbroken. 


For we cannot help agreeing 


And the darkness gave no token, 


That no living human being 


And the only word there spoken 


Ever yet was blessed with seeing 


Was the whispered word, "Lenore ! " 


Bird above his chamber door — 


This I whispered, and an echo 


Bird or beast upon the sculptured 


Murmured back the word " Lenore ! " — 


Bust above his chamber door, 


Merely this, and nothing more. 


With such name as " Nevermore." 


Then into the chamber turning. 


But the raven, sitting lonely 


All my soul within me burning, 


On the placid bust, spoke only 


Soon I heard again a tapping 


That one word, as if his soul in 


Somewhat louder than before : 


That one word he did outpour. 


"Surely," said I, "surely that is 


Nothing farther then he uttered — 


Something at my window lattice; 


Not a feather then he fluttered — 


Let me see, then, what thereat is. 


Till I scarcely more than muttered 


And this mystery explore — 


" Other friends have flown before — 


Let my heart be still a moment. 


On the morrow he will leave me. 


And this mystery explore ; — 


As my hopes have flown before." 


*T is the wind, and nothing more ! " 


Then the bird said "Nevermore." 


Open here I flung the shutter. 


Startled at the stillness broken 


When, with many a flirt and flutter. 


By reply so aptly spoken. 


In there stepped a stately raven 


"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters 


Of the saintly days of yore ; 


Is its only stock and store — 



680 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. 


Caught from some unhappy master, 


Tempest tossed thee here ashore — 


"Whom unmerciful Disaster 


Desolate yet all undaunted. 


Followed fast and followed faster, 


On this desert land enchanted, 


Till his songs one burden bore — 


On this home by Horror haunted — 


Till the dirges of his hope the 


Tell me truly, I implore — 


Melancholy burden bore 


Is there — ^is there balm in Gilead? 


Of ' Nevermore,'— of ' Nevermore.' " 


Tell me — tell me, I implore ! " 




Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 


But the raven still beguiling 




All my sad soul into smiling, 


" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil- 


Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 


Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 


Front of bird, and bust and door ; 


By that heaven that bends above us — 


Then upon the velvet sinking. 


By that God we both adore — 


I betook myself to linking 


Tell thig'soul with sorrow laden 


Fancy unto fancy, thinking 


If, within the distant Aidenn, 


What this ominous bird of yore — 


It shall clasp a sainted maiden 


What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 


Whom the angels name Lenore — 


Gaunt and ominous bird of yore 


Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 


Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 


Whom the angels name Lenore." 




Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 


This I sat engaged in guessing. 




But no syllable expressing 


" Be that word our sign of parting. 


To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now 


Bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — 


Burned into my bosom's core ; 


" Get thee back into the tempest 


This, and more, I sat divining, 


And the Night's Plutonian shore ! 


With my head at ease reclining 


Leave no black plume as a token 


On the cushion's velvet lining 


Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 


That the lamplight gloated o'er ; 


Leave my lonehness unbroken ! — 


But whose velvet violet lining. 


Quit the bust above my door ! 


With the lamplight gloating o'er. 


Take thy beak from out my heart. 


She shall press — ah, never more ! 


And take thy form from off my door ! " 




Quoth the raven "Nevermore." 


Then, methought, the air grew denser, 




Perfumed from an unseen censer 


And the raven, never flitting, 


Swung by angels, whose faint foot-falls 


Still is sitting, still is sitting 


Tinkled on the tufted floor. 


On the pallid bust of Pallas 


"Wretch! " I cried, "thy God hath lent 


Just above my chamber door; 


thee, 


And his eyes have all the seeming 


By these angels he hath sent thee. 


Of a demon that is dreaming, 


Respite — respite and nepenthe 


And the lamplight, o'er him streaming 


From thy memories of Lenore ! 


Throws his shadow on the floor ; 


Quaff, quaff this kind nepenthe. 


And my soul from out that shadow 


And forget this lost Lenore ! " 


That lies floating on the floor 


Quoth the raven "Nevermore." 


ShaU be lifted— nevermore ! 




Edgae Allan Poe. 


" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil !— 
Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 




« — ♦ 


Whether tempter sent, or whether 





THE DJINNS. 581 




'T is the Djinns' wild-streaming swarm 




Whistling in their tempest-flight ; 


THE DJINNS. 


Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm. 




Like a pine-flame crackling bright ; 


TowiT, tower, 
Shore, deep. 


Swift and heavy, low, their crowd 


Through the heavens rushing loud ! — 


Tiike a lurid thunder-cloud 


Where lower 
Cliffs steep ; 


With its bolt of fiery night! 


Waves gray 




Where play- 


Ha ! they are on us, close without ! 


Winds gay — 


Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! 


All asleep. 


With hideous din the monster rout, 




Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! 


Hark ! a sound. 
Far and slight, 
TJreathes around 


The loosened rafter overhead 


Trembles and bends like quivering reed ; 


Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 


On the night — 


As from its rusty hinge 't would fly ! 


High and higher, 




Nigh andnigher, 


Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and 


Like a fire 


shriek ! 


Eoaring bright. 


The horrid swarm, before the tempest tossed — 




Heaven! — descends my lowly roof to 


Now on it is sweeping 
With rattling beat, 


seek; 
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious 


Like dwarf imp leaping 
In gallop fleet ; 


llUoli , 

Totters the house, as though — ^like dry leaf 
shorn 


He flies, he prances, 
In frohc fancies — 


From autumn bough and on the mad blast 


On wave-crest dances 
With pattering feet. 


borne — 
Up from its deep foundations it were torn 
To join the stormy whirl. Ah ! all is lost ! 


Hark, the rising swell, 


Prophet ! if thy hand but now 


With each nearer burst ! 
Like the toU of beU 


Save from these foul and hellish things, 
A pilgrim at thy shrine I '11 bow. 


Of a convent cursed ; 


Laden with pious offerings. 


Like the billowy roar 


Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 


On a storm-lashed shore — 


Stream on my faithful door in vain, 


Now hushed, now once more 


Yainly upon my blackened pane 


Maddening to its worst. 


Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! 


God! the deadly sound 


They have passed ! — and their wild legion 


Of the Djinns' fearful cry ! 


Cease to thunder at my door; 


Quick, 'neath the spiral round 


Fleeting through night's rayless region, 


Of the deep staircase, fly ! 


Hither they return no more. 


See, see our lamplight fade ! 


Clanking chains and sounds of woe 


And of the balustrade 


Fill the forests as they go ; 


Mounts, mounts the circling sh£td&. 


And the tall oaks cower low. 


Up to the ceiling high ! 


Bent their flaming flight before. 



682 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



On ! on ! the storm of wings 
Bears far the fiery fear, 
Till scarce the breeze now brings 
Dim mm-murings to the ear ; 
Like locusts' humming hail, 
Or thrash of tiny flail 
Plied by the pattering hail 
On some old roof-tree near. 

Fainter now are borne 
Fitful mutterings still ; 
As, when Arab horn 
Swells its magic peal, 
Shoreward o'er the deep 
Fairy voices sweep. 
And the infant's sleep 
Golden visions fill. 

Each deadly Djinn, 
Dark child of fright, 
Of death and sin, 
Speeds the wild flight. 



Hark, the dull moan ! 
Like the deep tone 
Of ocean's groan. 
Afar, by night ! 

More and more 
Fades it now. 
As on shore 
Kipples flow — 
As the plaint, 
Far and faint. 
Of a saint, 
MurHaured low. 

Hark! hist! 
Around 
Hist! 

The bounds 
Of space 
All trace 
Efface 
Of sound. 

ViCTOE Hugo (French). 
Translation of John L. O'Sttllivan. 



PART IX. 

POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND EEFLEOTION 



The snow-drop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet ; 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, sent 
From the turf, like the roice and the instrument. 

Then the pied wind-flowers, and the tulip tall. 
And Narcissi, the fairest among them all. 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess 
Till they die of their own dear loreliness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 

And the wand-like lily which lifted up, 
As a Moenad, its moonlight-colored cup, 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint,and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

Shellet. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



"ALL EAKTHLY JOY EETUEKS IN" 
PAIN." 

Op Lentern in the first morning, 
Early as did the day np-spring, 
Thns sang ane bird with voice up-plain : 
All ea/rthly joy returns in pain. 

O man I have mind that thon must pass ; 
Kemember that thou art but ass, [ashes,] 
And shall to dust return again : 
All ea/rfhly joy returns in pain. 

Have mind that age aye follows youth ; 
Death follows life with gaping mouth. 
Devouring fruit and flowering grain • 
All earthly, joy returns in pain. 

Came never yet May so fresh and green, 
But January came as wud and keen ; 
"Was never such drout but ance came rain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

Since -earthly joy abydis never. 
Work for the joy that lasts for ever ; 
Eor other joy is all but vain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

William Dttnbae. 



THE LOEDS OF THULE. 

The Lords of Thule it did not please 

That "Willegis their bishop was ; 

For he was a wagoner's son. 

And they drew, to do him scorn, 

Wheels of chalk upon the wall ; 

He found them in chamber, found them in 
haU. 

But the pious Willegis 

Could not be moved to bitterness ; 

Seeing the wheels upon the wall, 

He bade his servants a painter call ; 

And said, — " My friend, paint now for me, 

On every wall, that I may see, 

A wheel of white in a field of red ; 

Underneath, in letters plain to be read— 
' Willegis, bishop now by name. 
Forget not whence you came ! ' " 

The Lords of Thule were full of shame— 
They wiped away their words of blame ; 
For they saw that scorn and jeer 
Cannot wound the wise man's ear. 
And all the bishops that after him came 
Quartered the wheel with their arms of fame. 
Thus came to pious Willegis 
Glory out of bitterness. 

AwoNTMoirs. (German.) 

Anonymous translation. 



686 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




"Pledges of thy love and faith. 


BAKOLAY OF UKY. 


Proved on many a field of death. 




Not by me are needed." 


U]? the streets of Aberdeen, 


Marvelled much that henchman bold, 


By the kirk and college green, 


That his laird, so stout of old. 


Eode the Laird of Ury ; 


Now so meekly pleaded. 


Close behind him, close beside, 




Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 
Pressed the mob in fury. 


"Woe 's the day," he sadly said. 


With a slowly-shaking head. 


Flouted him the drunken churl, 


And a look of pity ; 


Jeered at him the serving girl, 


" Ury's honest lord reviled, 


Prompt to please her master ; 


Mock of knave and sport of child, 


And the begging carlin, late 


In his own good city ! 


Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 




Cursed him as he passed her. 


"Speak the word, and, master mme, 


Yet with calm and stately mien 


As we charged on TiUy's line. 


Up the streets of Aberdeen 


And his Walloon lancers. 


Came he slowly riding ; 


Smiting through tlieir midst, we '11 teach 


And, to all he saw and heard. 


Civil look and decent speech 


Answering not with bitter word. 


To these boyish prancers ! " 


Turning not for chiding. 




Came a troop with broadswords swing- 


" IVTarvel not, mine ancient friend- 


ing, 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing. 


Like beginning, like the end : " 


Quoth the Laird of Ury ; 


Loose, and free, and froward : 


" Is the sinful servant more 


Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down I 


Than his gracious Lord who bore 


Push him! prick him! Through the 


Bonds and stripes in Jewry? 


town 




Drive the Quaker coward ! " 


" Give me joy that in His name 


But from out the thickening crowd 


I can bear, with patient frame, 
All these vain ones offer ; 


Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" 
And the old man at his side 
Saw a comrade, battle-tried. 


While for them He suffereth long, 

Shall I answer wrong with wrong. 

Scoffing with the scoffer? 


Scarred and sunburned darkly ; 






" Happier I, with loss of all — 


Who, with ready weapon bare, 


Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 


Fronting to the troopers there. 


With few friends to greet me — 


Cried aloud : " God save us ! 


Than when reeve and squire were seen 


Call ye coward him who stood 


Riding out from Aberdeen 


Ankle-deep in Lutzen's blood. 


With bared heads to meet me ; 


With the brave Gustavus ? " 




" Nay, I do not need thy sword, 


"When each good wife, o'er and o'er. 


Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; 


Blessed me as I passed her door ; 


" Put it up I pray thee : 


And the snooded daughter, 


Passive to His holy will. 


Through her casement glancing down, 


Trust I in my master still, 


Smiled on him who bore renown 


Even though he slay me." 


From red fields of slaughter. 



HARMOSAN. 



587 



" Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 
Hard the old friends' falling off, 

Hard to learn forgiving ; 
But the Lord his own rewards, 
And his love with theirs accords 

Warm, and fresh, and living. 

" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith heholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking ; 
Knowing God's own time is best, 
In a patient hope I rest 

Tor the full day-breaking ! " 

So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
Where, through iron gates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen ! 

N"ot in vain, confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 

Of thy day of trial ! 
Every age on hira, who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways. 

Pours its seven-fold vial. 

Happy he whose inward ear 
Angel comfortings can hear. 

O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
And, while Hatred's fagots burn. 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

Knowing this — that never yet 
Share of Truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow; 
After hands shall sow the seed. 
After hands from hill and mead 

Eeap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the seer. 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the future borrow — 
Clothe the. waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain. 

Paint the golden morrow ! 

John Greenleaf Whittiee. 



HARMOSAN. 

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Per- 
sian throne was done. 

And the Moslem's fi.ery valor had the crown- 
ing victory won. 

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader 

to defy. 
Captive, overborne by numbers, they were 

bringing forth to die. 

Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo, I 

perish in my thirst ; 
Give me but one drink of water, and let then 

arrive the worst ! " 

In his hand he took the goblet ; but a while 
the draught forbore. 

Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foe- 
men to explore. 

Well might then have paused the bravest — 
for, around him, angry foes 

With a hedge of naked weapons did that 
lonely man enclose. 

" But what fearest thou ? " cried the Caliph; 

" is it, friend, a secret blow ? 
Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such 

treacherous dealing know. 

" Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for 
thou shalt not die before 

Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this re- 
prieve is thine — ^no more I " 

Quick the Satrap dashed the goblet down to 

earth with ready hand. 
And the liquid sunk for ever, lost amid the 

burning sand. 

" Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the 

water of that cup 
I have drained : then bid thy servants that 

spilled water gather up ! " 

For a moment stood the Caliph as by doubt- 
ful passions stirred — 

Then exclaimed, "For ever sacred must re- 
main a monarch's word. 



588 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



" Bring another cup, and straightway to the 

noble Persian give': 
Drint, I said before, and perish — now I bid 

thee drink and live ! " 

ElCHAKD ChENBVIX TeENCH. 



BALDER. 

Baldee, the white Sun-god, has departed ! 

Beautiful as Summer dawn was he ; 
Loved of gods and men — the royal-hearted 
Balder, the white Sun-god, has departed — 

Has gone home where all the brave ones be. 

For the tears of the imperial mother. 

For a universe that weeps and prays, 
Eides Hermoder forth to seek his brother — 
Rides for love of that distressful mother. 
Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue 
ways. 

"With the howling wind and raving torrent, 

Nine days rode he, deep and deeper down — 
Reached the vast death-kingdom, rough and 

horrent, 
Reached the lonely bridge that spans the tor- 
rent 
Of the moaning river by Hell-town. 

There he found the ancient portress stand- 
ing— 

Vexer of the mind and of the heart : 
"Balder came this way," to his demanding 
Cried aloud that ancient portress, standing — 

"Balder came, but Balder did depart; 

" Here he could not dwell. He is down yon- 
der — 
Northward, further, in the death-realm he." 
Rode Hermoder on in silent wonder — 
Mane of Gold fled fast and rushed down yon- 
der! 
Brave and good must young Hermoder be. 

For he leaps sheer over Hela's portal. 

Drops into the huge abyss below. 
There he saw the beautiful immortal — 
Saw him, Balder, under Hela's portal — 
Saw him, and forgot his nain and woe. 



" O, my Balder ! have I, have I found thee — 

Balder, beautiful as Summer morn ? 
0, my Sun-god ! hearts of heroes crowned 

thee 
For their king ; they lost, but now have found 
thee; 
Gods and men shall not be left forlorn. 



"Balder! brother! the Divine has vanished — 

The eternal splendors all have fled ; 
Truth and Love and Nobleness are banished 
The Heroic and Divine have vanished ; 
Nature has no god, and Earth lies dead. 

" Come thou back, my Balder — king and 
brother ! 
Teach the hearts of men to love the gods ! 
Come thou back, and comfort our great 

mother — 
Come with truth and bravery, Balder, bro- 
ther — 
Bring the Godlike back to men's abodes ! " 

But the Nomas let him pray unheeded — 

Balder never was to come again. 
Vainly, vainly young Hermoder pleaded — 
Balder never was to come. Unheeded, 
Young Hermoder wept and prayed in vain. 

Oh, the trueness of this ancient story I 

Even now it is, as it was then. 
Earth hath lost a portion of her glory ; 
And like Balder, in the ancient story. 

Never comes the Beautiful again. 

Still the young Hermoder journeys bravely, 
Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue 
ways; 
Still he calls his brother, pleading gravely — 
Still to the death-kingdom ventures bravely — 
Calmly to the eternal Terror prays. 

But the Fates relent not ; strong Endeavor, 
Courage, noble Feeling, are ^in vain ; 

For the Beautiful has gone fo)* ever. 

Vain are Courage, Genius, strong Endeavor — 
Never comes the Beautiful again. 



ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. 



589 



Do you think I counsel weak despairing ? 

No ! like young Hermoder I would ride ; 
With an humble, yet a gallant daring, 
I would leap unquailing, undespairing, 

Over the huge precipice's side. 

Dead and gone is the old world's Ideal, 
The old arts and old religion fled ; 

But I gladly live amid the Eeal, 

And I seek a worthier Ideal. 

Courage, brothers, God is overhead! 

ANomrMous, 



ADDEESS TO THE MUMMY AT BEL- 
ZOOT'S EXHIBITION. 

And thou hast walked about, (how strange a 
story!) 

In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, 
When the Memnomium was in all its glory, 

And Time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous. 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted 
dummy; 
Thou hast a tongue — come — ^let us hear its 
tune; 

Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground. 
Mummy! 
Eevisiting the glimpses of the moon — 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied crea- 
tures, 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and 
features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's 
fame ? 
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either Pyramid that bears his name ? 
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? 
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Ho- 
mer? 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise 
played ? 



Perhaps thou wert a Priest — ^if so, my strug- 
gles 

Are vain, for Priestcraft never owns its jug- 
gles. 

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat. 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to 
glass ; 

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat ; 
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. 
Has any Eoman soldier mauled and knuck- 
led; 
For thou wert dead, and buried, and em- 
balmed, 
Ere Eomulus and Eemus had been suckled : 
Antiquity appears to have begun 
Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou could'st develop — ^if that withered 
tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have 
seen — 
How the world looked when it was fresh and 
young. 
And the great Deluge stiU had left it green ; 
Or was it then so old that History's pages 
Contained no record of its early ages ? 

StiU silent! incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself — 
Eeveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slum- 
bered — 
What hast thou seen — what strange adven- 
tures numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended 
We have, above ground, seen some strange 
mutations ; 

The Eoman empire has begun and ended — 
New worlds have risen — we have lost old 
nations ; 

And countless kings have into dust been 
humbled. 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crum- 
bled. 



1 
590 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 


The one, with murmur and roar, 


When the great Persian conqueror, Cam- 


Bears fleets around coast and islet ; 


hyses, 


The other, without a shore, 


Marched armies o'er thy tomh with thunder- 


Ne'er knew the track of a pilot. 


ing tread — 


• 

John Steeling. 


O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis ; 
And shook the pyramids with fear and won- 
der, 
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 






THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 


If the tomh's secrets may not be confessed, 


We sat by the fisher's cottage. 


The nature of thy private life unfold : 


And looked at the stormy tide ; 


A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern 


The evening mist came rising. 


breast, 


And floating far and wide. 


And tears adown that dusty cheek have 




rolled ; 


One by one in the light-house 


Have children climbed those knees, and kissed 


The lamps shone out on high ; 


that face ? 


And far on the dim horizon 


What was thy name and station, age and 
race? 


A ship went sailing by. 


Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! 


We spoke of storm and shipwreck — 


Imperishable type of evanescence ! 


Of sailors, and how they live ; 


Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy narrow 


Of journeys 'twixt sky and water, 


bed, 


And the sorrows and joys they give. 


And standest undecayed within our pres- 




ence! 


We spoke of distant countries, 


Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment 


In regions strange and fair ; 


morning. 


And of the wondrous beings 


When the great trump shall thrill thee with 


And curious customs there : 


its warning. 




Why should this worthless tegument endure. 
If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 


Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 
Which are launched in the twilight hour ; 


! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 


And the dark and silent Brahmins, 


In living virtue — that when both must sever, 


Who worship the lotus flower. 


Although corraption may our frame consume, 




The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 


Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland — 


Horace Smith. 


Broad-headed, wide-mouthed and small — 




Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking. 
And chatter and scream and bawl. 




THK TWO OCEANS. 


And the maidens earnestly listened. 




Till at last we spoke no more ; 


Two seas, amid the night, 


The ship like a shadow had vanished. 


In the moonshine roll and sparkle — 


And darkness fell deep on the shore. 


Now spread in the silver light. 


Heney Heine (German). 


Now sadden, and wail, and darkle ; 


Translation of Chakles G. Leland. 


The one has a billowy motion. 




And from land to land it gleams ; 
The other is sleep's wide ocean. 






And its glimmering waves are dreams : 





ABOU BEN ADHEM. 



591 



YERSES 

SUPPOSED TO BE WEITTEN BY ALEXANDER SEL- 
KIEK, DUEINQ HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE 
ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. 

I AM monarcli of all I survey — 
My right there is none to dispute ; ■ 

From the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the hrute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech — 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestowed upon man ! 
O, had I the wings of a dove. 

How soon would I taste yon again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth — 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheered by the sallies of youth. 

Eeligion ! What treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! — 
More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford ; 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard, 
Never sighed at the sound of a knell. 

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more ! 
My friends — do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
O tell me I yet have a friend. 

Though a friend I am never to see. 



How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind. 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 

The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There 's mercy in every place. 

And mercy — encouraging thought ! — 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

"William Cowpeb. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold : 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" — The vision raised its 

head. 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord. 
Answered — "The names of those who love 

the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou; "Nay, not 

so,"' 
Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next 

night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God 

had blessed — 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



592 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



THE STEAMBOAT. 

See how yon flaming herald treads 

The ridged and rolling waves, 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 

She bows her surly slaves ! 
With foam before and fire behind, 

She rends the clinging sea. 
That flies before the roaring wind, 

Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers 

With heaped and glistening bells, 
Falls round her fast in ringing showers, 

With every wave that swells ; 
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, 

In lurid fringes thrown, 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and hfting keel, 

And smoking torch on high. 
When winds are loud, and billows reel, 

She thunders, foaming, by ! 
When seas are silent and serene 

With even beam she glides. 
The sunshine glimmering through the green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 

Kow, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form. 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still sounding through the storm ; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame. 

The reddening surges o'er. 
With flying scarf of spangled flame. 

The pharos of the shore. 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 

Who trims his narrowed sail ; 
To-night yon frigate scarce shaU keep 

Her broad breast to the gale ; 
And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 

Shall break from yard and stay, 
Before this smoky wreath hath stained 

The rising mist of day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, 

I see yon quivering mast — 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast ! 



An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff. 

White as the sea-bird's wing I 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ! 

For wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire ; 
Sleep on — and when the morning light 

Streams o'er the shining bay, 
0, think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day ! 

Olivee "Wendeli. Holmes, 



THE TILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

TJndee a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands : 
The smith — a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat — 

He earns whate'er he can ; 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn tiU night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow — 

Like a sexton ringing the village beU, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children, coming home from school. 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks, that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 
And sits among his boys ; 



THE SO]:^G OF THE FORGE. 



59S 



He hears the parson pray and preach — 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more; 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing — 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close — 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought — 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 

Henry "Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



THE SONQ OF THE FOEGE. 

Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; 

Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers swing — 

fjike the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 

The mighty blows still multiply — 

Clang, clang ! 

Say, brothers of the dusky brow, 

"What are your strong arms forging now ? 

Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now — 
The coulter of the kindly plough. 
Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! 
May its broad furrow still unbind 
To genial rains, to sun and wind, 
The most benignant soil ! 

Clang, clang ! — our coulter's course shall be 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 
By many a streamlet's silver tide — 
Amidst the song of morning birds, 
Amidst the low of sauntering herds — 
38 



Amidst soft breezes, which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 
Along the green hill's side. 

"When regal Autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the land — 
When to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold — 
We bless, we bless the plough. 

Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? 
Clink, clank ! — we forge the giant chain, 
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 
'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
The rocky roadstead, and the waves 
Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze, 
The storm-cloud on the hill ; 
Calmly he rests — though far away. 
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay — 
Eeliant on our skill. 

Say on what sands these links shall sleep, 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 
By Afric's pestilential shore ; 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ; 
By many a palmy western isle, 
Basking in Spring's perpetual smile ; 
By stormy Labrador. 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel. 

When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 

Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 

Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 

Hurrah ! — cling, clang ! — once more, what 

glows, 
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 
The iron tempest of your blows, 
The furnace's red breath ? 

Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured 



594 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Around, and up in the dusky air, 
As our hammers forge the Sword. 

The sword ! — a name of dread ; yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 't is hound — 
While for his altar and his hearth. 
While for the land that gave him birth, 
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound — 
How sacred is it then ! 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of fight — 
Whether in some wild mountain pass. 
As that where fell Leonidas ; 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston, or a Bannockburn ; 
Or amidst crags and bursting rills, 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
Or, as when sunk the Armada's pride, 
It gleams above the stormy tide — 
Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
Is Liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land — 
Then Heaven bless the Sword ! 

AlfOKYMOUS. 



THE FOKGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ! 't is 

at a white heat now — 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; 

though, on the forge's brow, 
The little flames still fitfully play through the 

sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths 

ranking round ; 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad 

hands only bare, 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work 

the windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains — the 
black mould heaves below ; 

And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out 
at every throe. 

It rises, roars, rends all outright — 0, Vulcan, 
what a glow ! 



'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright — the 

high sun shines not so ! 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery 

fearful show ! 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the 

ruddy lurid row 
Of smiths — that stand, an ardent band, like 

men before the foe ! 
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the 

sailing monster slow 
Sinks on the anvil — all about, the faces fiery 

grow : 
" Hurrah ! " they shout, "leap out, leap out! " 

bang, bang! the sledges go ; 
Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high 

and low ; 
A haUing fount of fire is struck at every 

squashing blow ; 
The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rat- 
tling cinders strew 
The ground around; at every bound the 

sweltering fountains flow ; 
And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at 

every stroke pant "ho! " 
Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out, and 

lay on load ! 
Let 's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick 

and broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, 

I bode ; 
And I see the good ship riding, all in a peril- 
ous road — 
The low reef roaring on her lea ; the roll o^ 

ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the main- 
mast by the board ; 
The bulwarks down ; the rudder gone ; the 

boats stove at the chains ; — 
But courage still, brave mariners — the bower 

yet remains ! 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns — save 

when ye pitch sky high ; 
Then moves his head, as though he said, 

"Fear nothing — here am I! " 

Swing in your strokes in order ! let foot and 

hand keep time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than 

any steeple's chime. 
But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and 

let the burthen be, 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 



591 



The anchor is the anvil king, and royal crafts- 
men we ! 

Strike in, strike in ! — the sparks begin to dull 
their rustling red ; 

Our hammers ring with sharper din — our 
work will soon be sped ; 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery 
rich array 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an 
oozy couch of clay .; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of mer- 
ry craftsmen here 

For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, 
and the sighing seamen's cheer — 

"When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far 
from love and home ; 

And sobbing sweethearts^ in a row, wail o'er 
the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down 
at last ; 

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from 
cat was cast. 

O trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou 
hadst life like me, 

What pleasures would thy toils reward be- 
neath the deep green sea ! 

deep sea-diver, who might then behold 
such sights as thou ? — 

The hoary monster's palaces! — Methinks 
what joy 'twere now 

To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assem- 
bly of the wbales, 

And feel the churned sea round me boil be- 
neath theii scourging tails ! 

Then deep in tangle -woods to fight the fierce 
sea-unicorn, 

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for 
all his ivory horn ; 

To leave the subtle sworder-:fish of bony blade 
forlorn ; 

And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh 
his jaws to scorn ; 

To leap down on the kraken's back, where 
'mid Norwegian isles 

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shal- 
lowed miles- 
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off 
he rolls ; 

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far 
astonished shoals 



Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, hap- 
ly, in a cove 

Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some 
Undine's love. 

To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard 
by icy lands, 

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon ceru- 
lean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep ! whose 

sports can equal thine ? 
The dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that 

tugs thy cable line ; 
And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory 

day by day. 
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant 

game to play. 
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the 

name I gave : 
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to 

save. 
lodger in the sea-kings' halls ! couldst thou 

but understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side — or 

who that dripping band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that 

round about thee bend, 
With sounds like breakers in a dream bless- 
ing their ancient friend — 
0, couldst thou know what heroes glide with 

larger steps round thee. 
Thine iron side would swell with pride — 

thou 'dst leap within the sea ! 

Give honor to their memories who left the 

pleasant strand 
To shed their blood so freely for the love of 

father-land— r 
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 

churchyard grave 
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing 

wave! 
O, though our anchor may not be all I have 

fondly sung. 
Honor him for their memory whose bones he 

goes among ! 

Samuel Ferguson. 



696 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 


THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 


Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud 


I. 


had lowered, 


It was a Summer evening — 


And the sentinel stars set their watch in 


Old Kaspar's work was done. 


the sky ; 


And he before his cottage door 


And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 


Was sitting in the sun ; 


powered — 


And by him sported on the green 


The weary to sleep, and the wounded to 
die. 


His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 


"When reposing that night on my pallet of 


II. 
She saw her brother Peterkin 


& LI di VV , 

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the 
slain, 
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 


RoU something large and round. 
Which he beside the rivulet, 


In playing there, had found ; 


And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it 


He came to ask what he had found. 


again. 


That was so large, and smooth, and round. 


Methought from the battle-field's dreadful 


ni. 


array 


Old Kaspar took it from the boy. 


Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 


Who stood expectant by ; 


'T was Autumn — and sunshine arose on the 


And then the old man shook his head. 


way 


And, with a natural sigh — 


To the home of my fathers, that welcomed 


" 'T is some poor fellow's skull," said he, 


me back. 


" Who fell in the great victory. 


I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 




In life's morning march, when my bosom 


IV. 


was young ; 


" I find them in the garden. 


I heard my own mountain-goats bleating 


For there 's many here about ; 


aloft. 


And often when I go to plough, 


And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 


The ploughshare turns them out ; 


reapers sung. 


For many thousand men," said he, 




" Were slain in the great victory." 


Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 




swore 


V. 


From my home and my weeping friends 


"Now tell us what 't was all about," 


never to part; 


Young Peterkin he cries ; 


My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 


And little Wilhelmine looks up 


And my wife sobbed aloud in her fuUness 


With wonder-waiting eyes — 


of heart. 


"Now tell us all about the war, 




And what they fought each other for." 


Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary and 




worn! — 


VI. 


And fain was their war-broken soldier to 




stay; 
But sorrow returned with the dawning of 


"It was the English," Kaspar cried. 


" Who put the French to rout ; 




But what they fought each other for. 


mom, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted 


I could not well make out ; 


. away. 

Thomas Campbell. 


But every body said," quoth he. 


'" That 't was a famous victory. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 



597 



VII. 

" Mj father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the gronnd, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 



" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother there. 

And new-born baby died; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 



" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won — 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 



" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won. 
And our good Prince Eugene." 

" Why, 't was a very wicked thing ! " 
Said little Welhelmine. 

''Nay — nay — my little girl! " quoth he, 

"It was a famous victory. 



And everybody praised the Duke, 
Who this great fight did win." 

■ But what good came of it at last ? " 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
■Why, that I cannot tell," said he; 

■ But 't was a famous victory." 

EOBEET SOTJTHEY. 



VICTORIOUS im^ OF EARTH. 

YiCTOEious men of earth, no more 
Proclaim how wide your empires are : 

Thougli you bind in every shore, 
And your triumphs reach as far 



As night or day, 
Yet you proud monarchs must obey. 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
Death calls ye to the crowd of common 
men. 

Devouring famine, plague, and war. 

Each able to undo mankind. 

Death's servile emissaries are ; 

l^Tor to these alone confined — 

He hath at will 

More quaint and subtle ways to kiU : 

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art. 

Shall have the cunning skill to break a 

heart. 

James Shiklet. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling. 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise — ^how wild and 
dreary — 
When the death-angel touches those swift 



What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
WiU mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, though the ages that have gone be- 
fore us. 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon ham- 
mer ; 
Through Clmbric forest roai's the Norse- 
man's song ; 
And loud, amid the universal clamor. 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful 
din; 
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' 
skin; 



698 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



The tumult of each sacked and burning vil- 
lage; 
The shout that every prayer for mercy 
drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 
asunder, 

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — 
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 

The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises. 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 
voices. 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world with 
terror. 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps 
and courts. 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 

The warrior's name would be a name ab- 
horred ; 
And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
Would wear forevermore the curse of 
Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long genera- 
tions. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then 
cease ; 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 
" Peace ! " 

Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of war's great organ shakes the 
skies ; 
But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Heney Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



THE BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 

childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to 

view ! — 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 

wildwood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 

stood by it ; 
The bridge, and the rock where the cata- 
ract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy -house nigh it; 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the 

well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 

well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treas- 
ure; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 

I fo-und it the source of an exquisite pleasure — 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing, 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
flowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to re- 
ceive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 

Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it. 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 

And now, far removed from the loved habi- 
tation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 

And • sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the 



well! 



Samixel Woodavoeth. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



599 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S 
PICTURE 

OUT OF NOEFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY OOTJSIN, 
ANN BODHAM. 

THAT those lips had language! Life has 



With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I 

see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Yoice only fails — else how distinct they say 
"Grieve not, my child — chase all thy fears 

away ! " 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it!) here shines on me still the 

same. 
Eaithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 

And, while that face renews my filial grief, 

Fancy shaU weave a charm for my relief — 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream that tliou art she. 
My mother ! when I learned that thou wast 
dead. 

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 

Perhaps thou gavestme, though unfelt, a kiss; 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 

Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; 

I saw the hear&e that bore thee slow away ; 

And, turning from my nursery window, drew 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 

But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art 
gone 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 

The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con- 
cern. 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 



What ardently I "wished I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for- 
got. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard 
no more — 
Children not thine have trod my nursery 

floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — 
'T is now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house our 

own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced: 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou might'st know me safe and warm- 
ly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home — 
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 

glowed : 
All this, and, more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page. 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may — 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere — 
Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed 
here. 
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 
hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 

flowers — 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine — 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the 
while — 



600 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



"Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 

smile) — 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish 

them here ? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's 
coast, 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean 

crossed,) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons 

smile. 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay — 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached 

the shore 
"Where tempests never beat nor billows 

roar ; " 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always dis- 
tressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 
tossed. 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and com- 
pass lost ; 
And day by day some current's thwarting 

force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous 

course. 
Yet 0, the thought that thou art safe, and 

he! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the 

earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell! — Time, unrevoked, has 

run 
His wonted course; yet what I wished is 
done. 



By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 

again — 
To have renewed the joys that once were 

mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me 

left. 

William Cowpee. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring 

swain, 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summer's lingering blooms de- 
layed ! 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease — 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could 

please ! 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endeared each 

scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm — 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topt the neighboring 

hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the 

shade — 
For talking age and whispering lovers made I 
How often have I blest the coming day. 
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. 
And all the village train, from labor free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading 

tree; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 



601 



The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the 
place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks 
reprove : 

These were thj charms, sweet village ! sports 
like these, 

"With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to 
please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- 
ence shed ; 

These were thy charms — ^but all these charms 
are fled. 

Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy 

way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering 

wall; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 

hand. 
Far, far away thy childi'en leave the land. 



HI fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has 

made; 
But^a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
"When once destroyed, can never be sup- 
plied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs be- 
gan, 
Wlien every rood of ground maintained its 
man: 



For him light labor spread her wholesome 

store — 
Just gave what life required, but gave no 

more; 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered: trade's unfeeling 
train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets 

rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- 
pose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peace- 
ful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the 

green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyi*ant's pow- 
er. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tanghng walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 

grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 
pain! 

In all my wanderings round this world of 

care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my 

•share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us stiU — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 

skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And teU of all I felt, and all I saw ; 



302 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pur- 
sue, 

Pants to the place from whence at first she 
flew, 

I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 

Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline ! 
Ketreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like 

these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations 

try, 

And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and 

weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous 

deep; 
'No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 
close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came softened from be- 
low: 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their 

young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school. 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whis- 
pering wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the j^acant 

mind. 
These%ll in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population fail; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway 

tread — 
But all the bloomy blush of life is fled. 



All but one widowed, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for 

bread. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

NTear yonder copse, where once the garden 

smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows 

wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place 

disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, 

his place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize- 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their 

pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged 

breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims al- 
lowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away — 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow 

done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields 

were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned 

to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



603 



But in his duty prompt at every call, 

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for 

all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dis- 
mayed. 

The reverend champion stood. At his con- 
trol 

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 
raise, 

And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double 

sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to 

pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children followed, with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown, to share the good 

man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares 

distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were 

given — 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in hea- 
ven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 

storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds 

are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the 
way, 
"With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view — 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 



Well had the boding tremblers learned to 

trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited 

glee. 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; 
Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher 

too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre- 



And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue 
still; 

While words of learned length and thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder 
grew. 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame ; the very spot, 

Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Kear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on 

high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing 

eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil re- 
tired. 
Where village statesmen talked with looks 

profound. 
And news much older than their ale went 

round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded 

floor. 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the 

door. 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day. 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of 

goose ; 



604 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



The hearth, except when winter chilled the 

day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel 

gay; 
"While broken tea-cnps, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendor ! conld not all 
Eeprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall 

clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to 

hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born 

sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mmd, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined; 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar- 
rayed — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who sur- 
vey 

The rich man's joys increase, the poor's de- 
cay! 

'T is yours to judge how wide the limits stand 

Between a splendid and a happy land. 

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 
ore. 

And shouting FoUy hails them from her 
shore : 



Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound. 
And rich men flock from aU the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a 

name, 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss: the man of wealth and 

pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended 

bounds — 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half 

their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all. 
In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her 

reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
plies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past — for charms 

are frail — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed, 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed ; 
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling 

land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — {||garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah! where, shall poverty re- 
side. 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If, to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di- 
vide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 



605 



If to the city sped, what waits Mm there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps 

display. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the 

way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 

reign, 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous 

train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 

square — 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one miiversal joy! 
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn 

thine eyes 
"Where the poor, houseless, shivering female 

lies: 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 

thorn ; 
Now lost to aU — ^her friends, her virtue fled — 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from 

the shower, 
"With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
"When, idly first, ambitious of the town. 
She left her wheel, and robes of country 

brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the love- 
liest train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex worlA intrudes be- 
tween. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they 

"Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 



Far different there, from all that charmed be- 
fore, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray. 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to 

sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance 

crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death 

around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless 

prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than 

they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the 

skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy- vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that 

parting day 
That called them from their native walks 

away; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked 

their last. 
And took a long farewell, and wished hi vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main; 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Eeturned and wept, and still returned to 

weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' 

woe; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her 

woes, 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure 

rose ; 



606 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


And ki&sed her thoughtless babes with many 


Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 


a tear, 


Or winter wraps the polar world in snow — 


And dasped them close, in sorrow doubly 


Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 


dear ; 


Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 


"Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 


Aid slighted trutli with thy persuasive strain; 


In all the silent manliness of grief. 


Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 




Teach him that states, of native strength pos- 


luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 


sest, 


How ill exchanged are things like these for 


Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 


thee! 


That trade's proud empire hastes to swift de- 


How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 


cay. 


Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 


As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 


Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 


While self-dependent power can time defy, 


Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 


As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 


At every draught more large and large they 

grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 


Olivek Goldsmith. 




Till sapped their strength, and every part un- 




sound. 


THE BELLS OF SHANDOK 


Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin 




round. 


Sabhata pcmgo ; 




FuTvera plango ; 


Even now the devastation is begun. 


Solemnia elang.o. 

Inscription on an old beli* 


And half the business of destruction done ; 




Even now, methinks, as pondering here T 


With deep affection 


stand, 


And recollection 


I see the rural virtues leave the land. 


I often think of 


Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads 


Those Shandon bells. 


the sail 


Whose sounds so wild would, 


That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale — 


In the days of childhood, 


Downward they move, a melancholy band. 


Fling round my cradle 


Pass from the shore, and darken all the 


Their magic spells. 


strand. 




Contented toil, and hospitable care. 




And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 


On this I ponder 

"rm IT 1 


And piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 


Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder. 


And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 


Sweet Cork, of thee — 


Still first to fly where sensual joys invade — 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 


With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 


To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ! 


The pleasant waters 


Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, 


Of the river Lee. 


My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 




Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe — 


I 've heard bells chiming 


That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st 


Full many a clime in, 


me so! 


• Tolling sublime in 


Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel ! 


Cathedral shrine. 


Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well! 


While at a glibe rate 


Farewell! — and 01 where'er thy voice be 


Brass tongues would vibrate ; 


tried. 


But all their music 


On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side— 


Spoke naught like thine. 



THE BELLS. , 607 


For memory, dwelling 




On each proud swelling 


THE BELLS. 


Of thy belfry, knelling 


I. 


Its bold notes free, 


Heat?, the sledges with the bells — 


Made the bells of Shandon 


Silver bells— [tells ! 


Sound far more grand on 


"What a world of merriment their melody fore- ' 


The pleasant waters 


How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 


Of the river Lee. * 


In the icy air of night ! 




While the stars that oversprinkle 


I Ve heard bells tolling 


All the heavens, seem to twinkle 


Old Adrian's Mole in, 


With a crystalline delight — 


Their thunder rolling 


Keeping time, time, time, 


From the Vatican — 


In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 


And cymbals glorious 


To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 


Swinging uproarious 


From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 


In the gorgeous turrets 


Bells, bells, bells— 


Of iTotre Dame ; 


From the jingling and the tinkling of the 




beUs. 

II. 


But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 


Hear the meUow wedding bells — 
Golden bells ! 


Flings o'er the Tiber, 


What a world of happiness their harmony 


Pealing solemnly. 


foretells ! 


! the bells of Shandon 


Through the balmy air of night 


Sound far more grand on 


How they ring out their delight ! 


The pleasant waters 


From the molten-golden notes, 


Of the river Lee. 


And all in tune. 




What a liquid ditty floats 


There 's a bell in Moscow ; 


To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 


While on tower and kiosk 


gloats 


In Saint Sophia 


On the moon ! 


The Turkman gets, 


0, from out the sounding cells, 


And loud in air 


What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 


Calls men to prayer, 


How it swells ! 


From the tapering summit 


How it dwells 


Of tall minarets. 


On the Future ! how it tells 




Of the rapture that impels 




To the swinging and the ringing 


Such empty phantom 


Of the bells, bells, bells, 


I freely grant them ; 


Of the beUs, beUs, bells, bells. 


But there 's an anthem 


Bells, bells, bells— 


More dear to me — 


To the rhyming and the chiming of the 


'T is the bells of Shandon, 


bells. 


That sound so grand on 


ni. 


The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 


Hear the loud alarum bells — 




Brazen bells ! 


Father Pkout, (Francis Mahony.) 


What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 




tells! 


• 


In the startled ear of night 




How they scream out their aflPright! 



608 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Too mucli liorrified to speak, 


They are neither man nor woman — 


They can only shriek, shriek, 


They are neither brute nor human — 


Out of tune, 


They are ghouls : 


In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of 


And their king it is who tolls ; 


the fire. 


And he rolls, roUs, rolls. 


In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 


EoUs, 


frantic fire 


A paean from the bells ! 


Leaping higher, higher, higher. 


And his merry bosom swells 


With a desperate desire. 


With the paean of the bells ! 


And a resolute endeavor, 


And he dances and he yells ; 


Now — now to sit or never, 


Keeping time, time, time, 


By the side of the pale-faced moon. 


In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 


0, the bells, bells, bells, 


To the paean of the bells — 


What a tale their terror teUs 


Of the bells : 


Of Despair ! 


Keeping time, time, time. 


How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 


In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 


What a horror they outpour 


To the throbbing of the bells — 


On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 


Of the beUs, bells, bells— 


Yet the ear it fully knows, 


To the sobbing of the bells ; 


By the twanging, 


Keeping time, time, time. 


And the clanging. 


As he knells, knells, knells, 


How the danger ebbs and flows ; 


In a happy Eunic rhyme. 


Yet the ear distinctly tells, 


To the rolling of the bells — 


In the jangling. 


Ofthebells, bells, beUs— 


And the wrangling, 


To the tolling of the bells. 


How the danger sinks and swells. 


Of the beUs, beUs, bells, bells- 


By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 


Bells, bells, bells^ 


of the bells— 


To the moaning and the groaning of the beUs. 


Of the bells— 


Edgak Allan Pob. 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 




Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 






IV. 


THOSE EYENIN-G BELLS. 


Hear the tolling of the bells- 




Iron bells ! 


Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 


What a world of solemn thought their mon- 


How many a tale theu' music tells, 


ody compels ! 


Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 


In the silence of the night, 


When last I heard their soothing chime ! 


How we shiver with affright 




At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 


Those joyous hours are passed away ; 


From the rust within their throats 


And many a heart that then, was gay, 


Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people— 


Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 


And hears no more those evening bells. 


They that dwell up in the steeple, 




All alone, 


And so 't will be when I am gone — 


And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 


That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 


In that muffled monotone, 


While other bards shall walk these dells. 


Feel a glory in so rolling 


And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 


On the human heart a stone — 


Thomas Mooee. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 



609 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; 

OE, THE POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE IN HONOR 

OF ST. Cecilia's day. 

'T WAS at tlie royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 
Aloft, in awful state, 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 

bound ; 
(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 
The lovely Thais by his side 
Sate, like a blooming eastern bride. 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORUS. 

Eappy^ Tiappy^ happy pair ! 
Xone lut the Irave, 
None 'but the Irave. 



None lut the Irate 



tJiefair. 



Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre ; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty Love). 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
And while he sought her snowy breast; 
Then, round her slender waist he curled, 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign 

of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound — 
A present deity ! they shout around ; 
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 
39 



CHORUS. 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears^ 

Assumes the god^ 

Affects to nod^ 
And seems to shaTce the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musi 
cian sung — 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young ; 
The jolly god in triumph comes : 
Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums ! 
Flushed with a purple grace. 
He shows his honest face ; 
Now give the hautboys breath — ^he comes^ 
he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain ; 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 

Drinking is the soldiers' pleasure : 

Eich the treasure. 

Sweet the pleasure ; 

Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



Bacchus'' blessings are a treasure ; 
DrinMng is the soldier'' s pleasure : 

Rich the treasure^ 

Sweet the pleasure ; 
Siceet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice 
he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise — 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he Heaven and Earth defied. 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 

He chose a mournful Muse, 

Soft pity to infuse, 
He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen — 
Fallen from his high estate. 

And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate 



610 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Kevolving in his altered soul 


Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 


The various turns of chance below ; 


Has raised up his head! 


And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 


As awaked from the dead, 


And tears began to flow. 


And amazed, he stares around. 




Eevenge! revenge! Timotheus cries; 


CHORUS. 


See the Furies arise ! 


Revolving in his altered soul 


See the snakes that they rear, 


The various turns of chance ielow ; 


How they hiss in their hair, 


And, now and then, a sigh he stole; 


And the sparkles that flash from their 


And tears began to flow. 


eyes! 




Behold a ghastly band, 


The mighty master smiled, to see 


Each a torch in his hand ! 


That Love was in the next degree ; 


Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 


'T was but a kindred sound to move, 


slain. 


For pity melts the mind to love. 


And unburied remain, 


Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 


Inglorious, on the plain ! 


Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 


Give the vengeance due 


"War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 


To the vahant crew. 


Honor but an empty bubble— 


Behold how they toss their torches on 


ITever ending, still beginning — 


high. 


Fighting still, and still destroying ; 


How they point to the Persian abodes. 


If the world be worth thy winning, 


And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 


Think, think it worth enjoying! 


The princes applaud with a furious joy. 


Lovely Thais sits beside thee — 


And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 


Take the goods the gods provide thee. 


destroy; 


The many rend the sky with loud applause ; 


Thais led the way 


So Love was crowned, but Music won the 


To light him to his prey, 


cause. 


And, hke'another Helen, fired another Troy. 


The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 




Gazed on the fair 


CHOEUS. 


Who caused his care. 


And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 


And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 


destroy ; 


Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 


Thais led the way 


At length, with love and wine at once op- 


To light him to his prey, 


pressed. 


And, like another Helen, flred another Troy. 


The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 




CHOEUS. 


Thus, long ago — 




Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 


The- prince unatle to conceal his pain. 


While organs yet were mute — 


Gazed on the fair 


Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 


Who caused his care, 


And sounding lyre, 


And sighed and looked, sighed and looTced, 


Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 


Sighed and looted, and sighed again. 


desire. 


At length, tcith love and wine at once oppressed, 


At last divine Cecilia came. 


The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 


Inventress of the vocal frame ; 




The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 


■N"ow strike the golden lyre again — 


Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 


A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 


And added length to solemn sounds. 


Break his bands of sleep asunder. 


With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 


And rouse him, like a ratthng peal of thunder. 


before. 



THE PASSIONS. 



611 



Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown ; 
He raised a mortal to the skies — 

She drew an angel down. 

GEAND OHOEUS. 

At last dimne Cecilia came^ 
Inventress of the meal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast^ from her sacred store^ 
Enlarged the former narrow hounds^ 
And added length to solemn sounds^ 
With nature's mother-wit^ and arts unknown 
lefore. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize^ 

Or "both divide the crown ; 
Se raised a mortal to the sMes — 
She drew an angel down. 

John Deyden. 



INFLUEI^CE OF MUSIC. 

Oephefs, with his lute, made trees. 
And the mountain-tops that freeze. 

Bow themselves when he did sing ; 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung — as sun and showers 

There had made a lasting Spring. 

Every thing that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea. 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art, 
Killing care, and grief of heart — 

Fan asleep, or, hearing, die ! 

Shakespeaeb. 



MUSIC. 



O, LULL me, lull me, charming air ! 

My senses rock with wonder sweet ! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet. 
Grief who need fear 
That hath an ear ? 
Down let him lie. 
And slumbering die. 
And change his soul for harmony. 

John Dryden, 



THE PASSIONS. 

AN ODE FOE MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell — 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting — 
Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try. 
Amid the chords bewildered laid. 

And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 

N'ext Anger rushed ; his eyes, on fire, 
In lightnings owned his secret stings : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures wan Despair, 
Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled — 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair — 

What was thy delightful measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance 
hail! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
She called on Echo still, through all the 
song; 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at 
every close ; 
And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved 
her golden hair. 



612 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


And longer had slie sung — but, with a 


The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste- 


frown, 


eyed Queen, 


Revenge impatient rose ; 


Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen. 


He threw his blood-stained sword in thun- 


Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 


der down ; 


Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 


And, with a withering look, 


And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen 


The war-denouncing trumpet took. 


spear. 


And blew a blast so loud and dread, 


Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 


Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 


He, with viny crown advancing, 


And, ever and anon, he beat 


First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 


The doubling drum, with furious heat ; 


But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. 


And though sometimes, each dreary pause 


Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the 


between. 


best; 


Dejected Pity, at his side. 


They would have thought, who heard the 


Her soul-subduing voice applied. 


strain, 


Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mein, 


They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 


While each strained ball of sight seemed 


Amidst the festal sounding shades. 


bursting from his head. 


To some unwearied minstrel dancing. 


Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were 


While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 


fixed — 


Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: 


Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 


Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un- 


Of differing themes the veering song was 


bound ; 


mixed; 


And he, amidst his frolic play, 


And now it courted Love — now, rav- 


As if he would the charming air repay, 


ing, called on Hate. 


Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 


With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 


Music ! sphere-descended maid. 


Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 


Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 


And, from her wild sequestered seat, 


Why, goddess ! why, to us denied. 


In notes by distance made more sweet, 


Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 


Poured through the mellow horn her pen- 


As, in that loved Athenian bower. 


sive soul ; 


You learned an all commanding power, 


And, dashing soft from rocks around, 


Thy mimic soul, nymph endeared. 


Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 


Can well recall what then it heard ; 


Through glades and glooms the mingled 


Where is thy native simple heart, 


measure stole ; 


Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 


Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond 


Arise, as in that elder time, 


delay, 
Round an holy calm diffusing, 


Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! 


Thy wonders, in that godlike age. 


Love of Peace, and lonely musing, 


Fill thy recording sister's page ; 


In hollow murmurs died away. 


'T is said — and I beheve the tale — 




Thy humblest reed could more prevail. 


But 1 how altered was its sprightlier tone 


Had more of strength, diviner rage, 


When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 


Than all which charms this laggard age — 


hue. 


E'en all at once together found — 


Her bow across her shoulder flung. 


Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 


Her buskins gemmod with morning dew. 


bid our vain endeavors cease ; 


Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 


Revive the just designs of Greece ! 


rung — 


Return in all thy simple state — 


The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad 


Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 


known! 


William CoLLncs. 



ON A LADY SINGING. 



613 



TO CONSTANTIA— SINGING. 

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die, 
Perchance were death indeed ! — Constan- 
tia, turn! 
In thy dark ejes a power like light doth lie, 
Even though the sounds which were thy 
voice, which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; 

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like 
odor it is yet. 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are 

wet — 
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not 
forget ! 

A breathless awe, like the swift change, 
Unseen but felt, in youthful slumbers, 

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, 
Thou breathest now in fast ascending num- 
bers. 

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven 
By the enchantment of thy strain ; 

And on my shoulders wings are woven, 
To follow its sublime career 

Beyond the mighty moons that wane 

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere. 
Till the world's shadowy walls are past and 
disappear. 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — ^it lingers, 
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling 
wings ; 

The blood and life within those snowy fingers 
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental 
strings. 

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — 
The blood is listening in my frame ; 

And thronging shadows, fast and thick, 
Fall on my overflowing eyes ; 

My heart is quivering like a flame ; 

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, 
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstacies. 

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee ; 
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy 
song 
Flows on, and fills all things with melody. 
Now is thy voice a tempest, swift and 
strong, 



On which, like one in trance upborne. 

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep. 
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. 

Now 't is the breath of summer night, 
Which, when the starry waters sleep, 

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms 

bright, 
Lingermg, suspends my soul in its volup- 
tuous flight. 

Peeoy Bysshe Shelley. 



ON A LADY SINGING. 

Oft as my lady sang for me 

That song of the lost one that sleeps by the 

sea. 
Of the grave on the rock, and the cypress 
tree, 
Strange was the pleasure that over me 

stole, 
For 't was made of old sadness that lives in 
my soul. 

So still grew my heart at each tender 

word 
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely 

stirred. 
And I hardly breathed, but only heard ; 
Where was I ? — not in the world of men, 
Until she awoke me with silence again. 

Like the smell of the vine, when its early 

bloom 
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny per- 
fume, 
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room ! 
Whether it came from the vine without, 
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in 
doubt. 

Light shadows played on the pictured 

wall 
From the maples that fiuttered outside the 

hall. 
And hindered the daylight — yet ah! not 
all; 
Too little for that all the forest would be — 
Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me ! 



614 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



When my sense returned, as the song was 

o'er, 

I fain would have said to her, "Sing it once 

more ; " 

But soon as she smiled my wish I forhore : 

Music enough in her look I found, 

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the 

sound. 

Thomas William Parsons. 



A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 

M remigem cantus Jiortatur. 

QcriNTILIAN. 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
"We '11 sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Kow, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the dayhght 's past ! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? — 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ! 
But when the wind blows off the shore 
O ! sweetly we '11 rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 

TJtawa's tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers — 
! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 

Thomas Moore. 



EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 

Sing again the song you sung 
When we were together young — 
When there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
Though I know that nevermore 
Will it seem the song you sung 
When we were together young. 

George William Ctjetib. 



WOMAN'S VOICE. 

" Her voice was ever low, 
Gentle and soft— an excellent thing in woman." 

King Lear. 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees. 
When evening breezes sing their vesper 
hymn — 
Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies, 

Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim. 
Is earth's best music ; these may have awhile 
High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking 
cares beguile. 

But even as the swallow's silken wings, 
Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, 

Stir the still silver with a hundred rings — 
So doth one soimd the sleeping spirit wake 

To brave the danger, and to bear the harm— 

A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chief- 
est charm. 

An excellent thing it is ! and ever lent 
To truth and love, and meekness; they 
who own 
This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent. 

Ever by quiet step and smile are known ; 
By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that 

have sorrowed — 
By patience never tired, from their own tri- 
als borrowed. 

An excellent thing it is — when first in glad- 
ness 
A mother looks into her infant's eyes — 
Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sad- 
ness — 
Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries ; 
Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys — 
All these come ever blent with one low gen- 
tle voice. 

An excellent thing it is when life is leaving — 
Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and 
cares — 
The strong heart failing, and the high soul 
grieving 
With strangest thoughts, and wild unwont- 
fears ; 



THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 



615 



Then, then a woman's low soft sympathy 
Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how 
to die. 

But a most excellent thing it is in youth, 

"When the fond lover hears the loved one's 

tone. 

That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth — 

How their two hearts are one, and she his 

own; 

It makes sweet human music — ! the spells 

That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed 

maiden tells ! 

Edwin Arnold. 



SONG. 



Still to be neat, still to be drest. 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, stiU perfumed — 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Eobes loosely flowing, hair as free — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
Ben Jonson. 



DELIGHT m DISOKDER. 

A SWEET disorder in the dress 

Kindles in clothes a wantonness : 

A lawn about the shoulders thrown 

Into a fine distraction — 

An erring lace, which here and there 

Enthralls the crimson stomacher— 

A cuff neglectful, and thereby 

Ribbons to flow confusedly — 

A Avinning wave, deserving note. 

In the tempestuous petticoat — 

A careless shoe string, in whose tie 

I see a wild civility — 

Do more bewitch me than when art 

Is too precise in every part. 

Egbert Heeeick. 



THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 

Heee's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo- 
buds strewn. 
To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of 
the May ! 
Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate 
shoon, 
And a woodbine to weave you a canopy 
gay- 
Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for 
you— 
Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone ; 
Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over 
with dew. 
To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its 
own. 

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in 
the dale. 
That the nymph of the wave on your wrists 
doth bestow ; 
Here's a lily- wrought scarf your sweet blushes 
to hide. 
Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon 
snow. 

Here's a myrtle enwreathed with a jessamine 
band. 
To express the fond twining of beauty and 
youth ; 
Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite 
hand. 
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre 
of Truth. 

Then around you we'll dance, and around 

you we' 11 sing — 

To soft pipe and sweet tabor we' 11 foot it 

away; 

And the hills, and the dales, and tlie forests 

shall ring, 

While we hail you our lovely young Queen 

of the May. 

Geoege Daeley 



616 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




The wind may be enamored of a flower, 


HEBE. 


The ocean of the green and laughing shore, 




The silver lightning of a lofty tower — 


I SAW the twinkle of white feet. 


But must not with too near a love adore ; 


I saw the flash of robes descending; 


Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tow- 


Before her ran an influence fleet, 


er. 


That bowed my heart like barley bending. 


Love and delight shall with delight devour ! 




LoED Thuelow. 


As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding. 






It led me on — by sweet degrees, 




Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 


TO MISTEESS MAEGAEET HUSSEY. 


Those graces were that seemed grim fates ; 


Meekt Margaret, 


With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me ; 


As midsummer flower — 


The long sought secret's golden gates 


Gentle as falcon. 


On musical hinges swung before me. 


Or hawk of the tower ; 




With solace and gladness. 


I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 


Much mirth and no madness, 


Thrilling with godhood ; like a lover, 


All good and no badness ; 


I sprang the proffered life to clasp — 


So ioyously, 


The beaker fell ; the luck was over. 


J J 7 

So maidenly. 


The Earth has drunk the vintage up ; 
What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ? 
Can Summer fill the icy cup 
Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's ? 


So womanly 
Her demeaning — 
In everything 
Far, far passing 
That I can indite. 


spendthrift haste ! await the gods ; 


Or suffice to write. 


Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience. 


Of merry Margaret, 


Haste scatters on unthankful sods 


As midsummer flower, 


The immortal gift in vain libations. 


Gentle as falcon 




Or hawk of the tower ; 


Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 


As patient and as still, 


And shuns the hands would seize upon her ; 


And as full of good will. 


Follow thy life, and she will sue 


As fair Isiphil, 


To pour for thee the cup of honor. 


Coliander, 


James Ettssell Lowell. 


Sweet Pomander, 




Good Cassander ; 




Stedfast of thought. 

Well made, well wrought ; 




SOKISET. 


Far may be sought 




Ere you can find 


'T IS much immortal beauty to admire. 


So courteous, so kind, 


But more immortal beauty to withstand ; 
The perfect soul can overcome desire, 


As merry Margaret, 
This midsummer flower. 


If beauty with divine delight be scanned ; 
For what is beauty, but the bloomiug child 


Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower. 


Of fair Olympus, that in night must end, 


John Skelton. 


And be for ever from that bliss exiled, 


„_, 


If admiration stand too much its friend ? 





SONG. 



61Y 



WHO IS SYLVIA? 

Who is Sylvia ? what is she, 

That all the swains commend her ? 

Holy, fair, and wise, is she ; 

The heavens such grace did lend her 

That she might adored he. 

Is she kind, or is she fair ? 

For heauty lives with kindness. 
Love does to her eyes repair 

To help him of his hlindness — 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 



Then to Sylvia let ns sing 

That Sylvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling ; 
To her let us garlands bring. 

Shakespbaee. 



SHE WALKS m BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face — 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent. 

LoKD Byeon. 



HERMIOI^E. 

Thou hast beauty bright and fair, 

Manner noble, aspect free. 
Eyes that are untouched by care : 

What then do we ask from thee ? 
Mermione, Hermionef 

Thou hast reason quick and strong, 
Wit that envious men admire. 

And a voice, itself a song ! 

What then can we still desire ? 

Hermione^ Hermionef 

Something thou dost want, O queen ! 

(As the gold doth ask alloy,) 
Tears — amid thy laughter seen, 
Pity mingling with thy joy. 

This is all we ash from tJiee^ 
Hermione ! 

BAEEY COEN-WAIL. 



UPON JULIA'S RECOVERY. 

Deoop, droop no more, or hang the head, 

Ye roses almost withered ! 

New strength and newer purple get, 

Each here declining violet ! 

O primroses ! let this day be 

A resurrection unto ye. 

And to aU flowers allied in blood, 

Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood. 

For health on Julia's cheek hath shed 

Claret and cream commingled ; 

And those her lips do now appear 

As beams of coral but more clear. 

EOBEET HeEEICK. 



SONG. 

Lady, leave thy silken thread 

And flowery tapestrie — 
There's living roses on the bush, 

And blossoms on the tree. 
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 

Some random bud will meet ; 
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find 

The daisy at thy feet. 



618 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 



'T is like the birthday of the world, 

When earth was born in bloom ; 
The light is made of many dyes, 

The air is all perfume ; 
There's crimson buds, and white and blue— 

The very rainbow showers 
Have turned to blossoms where they fell, 

And sown the earth with flowers. 

There's fairy tulips in the east — 

The garden of the sun ; 
The very streams reflect the hues, 

And blossom as they run ; 
While morn opes like a crimson rose, 

Still wet with pearly showers : 
Then, lady, leave the silken thread 

Thou twinest into flowers ! 

Thomas Hood. 



TO A HIGHLAND GIEL. 

Sweet Highland Girl ! a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ; 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head. 

And these gray rocks ; that household lawn : 

Those trees — a veil just half withdrawn ; 

This fall of water, that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake ; 

This little bay, a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy abode — 

In truth, together do ye seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream — 

Such forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

But, O fair creature ! in the light 

Of common day so heavenly bright — 

I bless thee, vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart ; 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; 

And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away ; 
For never saw I mien or face 
In which more plainly I couid trace 
Benignity and homebred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 



Here, scattered, like a random seed. 
Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness ; 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread ; 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ; 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech — 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee, who art so beautiful ? 

happy pleasure ! here to dweU 
Beside thee in some heathy dell — 
Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality.: 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could. 
Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
Thy elder brother I would be. 
Thy father — anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven, that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place ! 
Joy have I had ; and, going hence, 

1 bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes. 
Then why should I be loth to stir ? 

I feel this place was made for her, 

To give new pleasure like the past — 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 

Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me shall behold, 



TO MY 


SISTER. 619 


As I do now, the cabin small, 


Her household motions light and free, 


The lake, the bay, the waterfall— 


And steps of virgin liberty ; 


And thee, the Spirit of them all ! 


A countenance in which did meet 


TVlLT.TAM "WORDSWOKTH. 


Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 




A creature, not too bright or good 




For human nature's daily food — 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 






Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 


THE TWO BEIDES. 


smiles. 


I SAW two maids at the kirk. 


And now I see with eye serene 


And both were fair and sweet- 


The very pulse of the machine ; 


One in her wedding robe. 

And one in her winding-sheet. 


A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 




The reason firm, the temperate will, 


The choristers sang the hymn — 


Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill : 


The sacred rites were read ; 


A perfect woman, nobly planned. 


And one for life to Life, 


To warn, to comfort, and command ; 


And one to Death, was wed. 


And yet a spirit still, and bright 




With something of an angel light. 


They were borne to their bridal beds. 


William Wordswoeth. 


In loveliness and bloom — 
One in a merry castle. 


' 




The other a solemn tomb. 






TO MY SISTER: 


One on the morrow woke 




In a world of sin and pain ; 


WITH A COPY OF " SUPEENATUEALISM OF NEW 


But the other was happier far, 


ENGLAND." 


And never awoke again ! 


Deae Sister ! while the wise and sage 


ElCHAED HeNEY StODDAED. 


Turn coldly from my playful page. 




And count it strange that ripened age 




Should stoop to boyhood's folly — 






I know that thou wilt judge aright 




Of all which makes the heart more light, 


'SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT." 


Or lends one star-gleam to the night 




Of clouded melancholy. 


She was a phantom of delight . 




When first she gleamed upon my sight : 


Away with weary cares and themes ! 


A lovely apparition, sent 


Swing wide the moon-lit gate of dreams ! 


To be a moment's ornament ; 


Leave free once more the land which teems 


Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 


With wonders and romances ! 


Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 


Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, 


But all things else about her drawn 


Shalt rightly read the truth which lies 


From May-time and the cheerful dawn— 


Beneath the quaintly-masking guise 


A dancing shape, an image gay. 


Of wild and wizard fancies. 


To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 






Lo ! once again our feet we set 


I saw her upon nearer view. 


On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, 


A spii'it, yet a woman too ! 


By lonely brooks, whose waters fret 



620 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



The roots of spectral beeclies ; 
Again the liearth-fire glimmers o'er 
Home's white-washed wall and painted 

floor, 
And young eyes widening to the lore 

Of faery-folks and witches. 

Dear heart ! — the legend is not vain 
Which lights that holy hearth again ; 
And, calling hack from care and pain, 

And death's funereal sadness, 
Draws round its old familiar blaze 
The clustering groups of happier days, 
And lends to sober manhood's gaze 

A glimpse of childish gladness. 

And, knowing how my life hath been 
A weary work of tongue and pen, 
A long, harsh strife, with strong-willed 
men. 

Thou wilt not chide my turning 
To con, at times, an idle rhyme. 
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime. 
Or listen, at life's noonday chime, 

For the sweet bells of morning ! 

John Geeenleaf Whittiee. 



THE OLD MAID. 

"Why sits she thus in solitude ? Her heart 

Seems melting in her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart. 

As if to let its heavy throbbings through ; 
In her dark eye a depth of softness swells, 

Deeeper than that her careless girlhood 
wore; 
And her cheek crimsons with the hue that 
tells 

The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core. 

It is her thirtieth birthday ! With a sigh 
Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuri- 
ant bowers, 
And her heart taken up the last sweet tie 
That measured out its links of golden 
hours ! 



She feels her inmost soul within her stir 
With thoughts too wild and passionate to 
speak ; 

Yet her full heart — its own interpreter — 
Translates itself in silence on her cheek. 

Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flow- 
ers. 
Once lightly sprang within her beaming 
track ; 
O, life was beautiful in those lost hours ! 

And yet she does not wish to wander back ; 
No ! she but loves in loneliness to think 
On pleasures past, though never more to 
be; 
Hope links her to the future — but the link 
That binds her to the past is memory. 

From her lone path she never turns aside, 
Though passionate worshippers before her 
fall ; 
Like some pure planet in her lonely pride. 

She seems to soar and beam above them all. 
Not that her heart is cold — emotions new 
And fresh as flowers are with her heart- 
strings knit ; 
And sweetly mournful pleasures wander 
through 
Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. 

For she hath lived with heart and soul alive 

To all that makes life beautiful and fair ; 
Sweet thoughts, like honey-bees, have made 
their hive 

Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there. 
Yet life is not to her what it hath been- — 

Her soul hath learned to look beyond its 
gloss ; 
And now she hovers, like a star, between 

Her deeds of love, her Saviour on the cross ! 

Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow. 

Though she hath ofttimes drained its bit- 
ter cup ; 
But ever wanders on with heavenward brow, 

And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up. 
She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere 

Her bosom yet will, bird-like, find its mate, 
And all the joys it found so blissful here 

Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. 



MOTHER MARGERY. 



621 



Yet sometimes o'er her trembling heart- 
strings thrill 
Soft sighs — ^for raptm-es it hath ne'er en- 
joyed ; 
And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill 
With wild and passionate thoughts the 
craving void. 
And thus she wanders on — half sad-, half 
blest— 
"Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart 
That, yearning, throbs within her virgin 
breast, 
Never to find its lovely counterpart ! 

Amelia B. "Welbt. 



MOTHER MARGERY. 

On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges 

Sloped the rough land to the grisly north ; 
And whose hemlocks, clinging to the hedges. 

Like a thin bandit staggered forth — 
In a crouching, wormy-timbered hamlet 

Mother Margery shivered in the cold, 
"With a tattered robe of faded camlet 

On her shoulders — crooked, weak, and old. 

Time on her had done his cruel pleasure ; 

For her face was very dry and thin. 
And the records of his growing measure 

Lined and cross-lined all her shrivelled skin. 
Scanty goods to her had been allotted, 

Yet her thanks rose oftener than desire ; 
While her long fingers, bent and knotted. 

Fed with withered twigs the dying fire. 

Raw and weary were the northern winters ; 

Winds howled piteously around her cot. 
Or with rude sighs made the jarring splinters 

Moan the misery she bemoaned not. 
Drifting tempests rattled at her windows. 

And hung snow-wreaths around her naked 
bed; 
While the wind-flaws muttered on the cinders, 

Till the last spark fluttered and was dead. 

Life had fresher hopes when she was younger. 
But their dying wrung out n^ complaints ; 

Chill, and penury, and neglect, and hunger — 
These to Margery were guardian saints. 



When she sat, her head was, prayer-like, 
bending ; 
When she rose, it rose not any more ; 
Faster seemed her true heart graveward 
tending 
Than her tired feet, weak and travel-sore. 

She was mother of the dead and scattered — 

Had been mother of the brave and fair ; 
But her branches, bough by bough, were 
shattered, 

Till her torn breast was left dry and 
bare. 
Yet she knew, though sadly desolated. 

When the children of the poor depart 
Their earth-vestures are but sublimated, 

So to gather closer in the heart. 

With a courage that had never fitted 

Words to speak it to the soul it blessed. 
She endured, in silence and unpitied. 

Woes enough to mar a stouter breast. 
Thus was born such holy trust within her, 

That the graves of all who had been dear. 
To a region clearer and serener, 

Raised her spirit from our chilly sphere. 

They were footsteps on her Jacob's ladder ; 

Angels to her were the loves and hopes 
Which had left her purified, but sadder ; 

And they lured her to the emerald slopes 
Of that heaven where anguish never flashes 

Her red fire-whips, — ^happy land, where 
flowers 
Bloom over the volcanic ashes 

Of this blighting, blighted world of ours ! 

All her power was a love of goodness ; 

All her wisdom was a mystic faith 
That the rough world's jargoning and rude- 
ness 
Turns to music at the gate of death. 
So she walked while feeble limbs allowed 
her, 
Knowing well that any stubborn grief 
She might meet with could no more than 
crowd her 
To that wall whose opening was relief. 



622 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



So she lived, an anchoress of sorrow, 

Lone and peaceful, on the rocky slope ; 
And, when burning trials came, would bor- 
row 
New fire of them for the lamp of hope. 
When at last her palsied hand, in grasping. 

Rattled tremulous at the grated tomb, 
Heaven flashed round her joys beyond her 
asking, 
And her young soul gladdened into bloom. 
Geoege S. Btjkleigh. 



THE NYMPH'S SONG, 

Gentle swain, good speed befall thee ; 

And in love still prosper thou ! 
Future times shall happy call thee. 

Though thou lie neglected now. 
Virtue's lovers shall commend thee, 
And perpetual fame attend thee. 



Happy are these woody mountains, 
In whose shadows thou dost hide ; 

And as happy are those fountains 
By whose murmurs thou dost bide : 

For contents are here excelling. 

More than in a prince's dwelling. 



These thy flocks do clothing bring thee. 
And thy food out of the fields ; 

Pretty songs the birds do sing thee ; 
Sweet perfumes the meadow yields ; 

And what more is worth the seeing, 

Heaven and earth thy prospect being ? 

None comes hither who denies thee 
Thy contentments for despite ; 

Neither any that envies thee 
That wherein thou dost delight : 

But all happy things are meant thee. 

And whatever may content thee. 

Thy afiection reason measures. 
And distempers none it feeds ; 

Still so harmless are thy pleasures 
That no other's grief it breeds ; 

And if night beget thee sorrow, 

Seldom stays it till the morrow. 



Why do foolish men so vainly 
Seek contentment in their store, 

Since they may perceive so plainly 
Thou art rich in being poor — • 

And that they are vexed about it. 

Whilst thou merry art without it ? 

Why are idle brains devising 
How high titles may be gained, 

Since by those poor toys despising 
Thou hast higher things obtained? 

For the man who scorns to crave them 

Greater is than they that have them. 

If all men could taste that sweetness 
Thou dost in thy meanness know, 

Kings would be to seek where greatness 
And their honors to bestow ; 

For it such content would breed them 

As they would not think they need them. 

And if those who so aspiring 

To the court preferments be. 
Knew how worthy the desiring 

Those things are enjoyed by thee. 
Wealth and titles would hereafter 
Subjects be for scorn and laughter. 

He that courtly styles afiected 

Should a May-Lord's honor have — 

He that heaps of wealth collected 
Should be counted as a slave ; 

And the man with few'st things cumbered 

With the noblest should be numbered. 

Thou their folly hast discerned 
That neglect thy mind and thee ; 

And to slight them thou hast learned, 
Of what title e'er they be ; 

That no more with thee obtaineth 

Than with them thy meanness gaineth. 

All their riches, honors, pleasures, 

Poor unworthy trifles seem, 
If compared with thy treasures — 

And do merit no esteem ; 
For they true contents provide thee. 
And from them can none divide thee. 



SHAKESPEARE. 623 


Whether thralled or exiled, 


So those virtues now neglected 


"Whether poor or rich thou be — 


To be more esteemed will come ; 


"Whether praised or reviled, 


Yea, those toys so much affected 


Not a rush it is to thee ; 


Many shall be wooed from ; 


This nor that thy rest doth win thee. 


And the golden age deplored 


But the mind which is within thee. 


Shall by some be thought restored. 




George Withee. 


Then, why so madly dote we 




' 


On those things that us o'erload ? 




"Why no more their vainness note we, 


ON ANAOKEON. 


But still make of them a god ? 




For, alas ! they still deceive us. 


Aeoitnd the tomb, bard divine. 


And in greatest need they leave us. 


TVhere soft thy hallowed brow reposes, 




Long may the deathless ivy twine, 


Therefore have the fates provided 


And Summer pour her waste of roses ! 


"Well, thou happy swain, for thee. 




That may'st here so far divided 


And many a fount shall there distil. 


From the world's distractions be. 


And many a rill refresh the flowers ; 


Thee distemper let them never, 


But wine shall gush in every rill, 


But in peace continue ever. 


And every fount yield milky showers. 




Thus — Shade of him whom nature taught 


In these lonely groves enjoy thou 
That contentment here begun ; 
And thy hours so pleased employ thou. 


To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure — 


"Who gave to love his warmest thought, 
Who gave to love his fondest measure — 


Till the latest glass be run. 




From a fortune so assured 




By no temptings be allured. 


Thus, after death if spirits feel 




Thou may' st fi'om odors round thee stream- 


Much good do 't them, with their glories, 


A pulse of past enjoyment steal, 


"Who in courts of princes dwell ; 


And live again in blissful dreaming. 


"We have read in antique stories 


Antipatee of Sidon, (Greek.) 


How some rose and how they fell — 


Paraphrase of Thomas Mooee. 


And 't is worthy well the heeding, 




There 's like end where 's hke proceeding. 
Be thou still in thy affection 




AN EPITAPH ON THK ADMIRABLE 


To thy noble mistress true ; 


DRAMATIC POET W. SHAKESPEARE. 


Let her never-matched perfection 




Be the same unto thy view ; 
And let never other beauty 


"What needs my Shakespeare for his honored 


Make thee fail in love or duty. 


UUllCo 

The labor of an age in piled stones ? 




Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 


For if thou shalt not estranged 


Under a starry-pointing pyramid ? 


From thy course professed be. 


Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 


But remain for aye unchanged. 


"What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 


Nothing shall have power on thee. 


name? 


Those that slight thee now shall love thee, 


Thou in our wonder and astonishment 


And in spite of spite approve thee. 


Hast built thyself a live-long monument. 



624 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



art 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression 

took, 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
Dost make us marble with too much conceiv- 
ing; 
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 

John Milton. 



SHAKESPEAEE. 

How little fades from earth when sink to rest 

The hours and cares that move a great man's 
breast ! 

Though nought of all we saw the grave may 
spare. 

His life pervades the world's impregnate air ; 

Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our foot- 
steps lies. 

His spirit breathes amid his native skies ; 

"VTith meaning won from him for ever glows 

Each air that England feels, and star it 
knows ; 

His whispered words from many a mother's 
voice 

Can make her sleeping child in dreiams re- 
joice ; 

And gleams from spheres he first conjoined 
to earth 

Are blent with rays of each new morning's 
birth. 

Amid the sights and tales of common things, 

Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths 
of kings, — 

Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round. 

Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the 
ground. 

His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by, 

And haunt with living presence heart and eye ; 

And tones from him, by other bosoms caught, 

Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought ; 

And the long sigh, and deep impassioned 
thrill, 

Eouse custom's trance and spur the faltering 
wiU. 



Above the goodly land, more his than ours. 

He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers ; 

And sees the heroic brood of his creation 

Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. 

O shaping brain ! O flashing fancy's hues ! 

boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews! 

O wit humane and blithe! sense sublime! 

For each dim oracle of mantled Time ! 

Transcendant Form of Man! in whom we 
read 

Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought 
and Deed ! 

Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee. 

We know how vast our world of life may be ; 

Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as 
thine, 

Small tasks and strengths may be no less di- 
vine. 

John Steeling. 



LIKKS ON THE MEEMAID TAYEEIsr. 

Souls of poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Eobin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, — " 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new old-sign 
Sipping beverage divine. 
And pledging with contented smack, 
The Mermaid in the zodiac. 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern. 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 

John Keats. 



THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING, 



625 



AN ODE— TO HIMSELF. 

"Wheee dost thou careless lie 

Buried in ease and sloth ? 
Eiiowledge that sleeps, doth die : 
And this security, 

It is the common moth 
That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys 

them hoth. 

Are all the Aonian springs 
Dried up ? lies Thespia waste ? 

Doth Olarius' harp want strings, 

That not a nymph now sings ? 
Or droop they as disgraced 
To see their seats and bowers by chattering 
pies defaced ? 

If hence thy silence be, 

As 't is too just a cause — 
Let this thought quicken thee ; ' 
Minds that are great and free 

Should not on fortune pause ; 
'T is crown enough to virtue stiU, her own 

applause. 

What though the greedy fry 

Be taken with false baits 
Of worded balladry, 
And think it poesy ? 

They die with their conceits, 
And only piteous scorn upon their foUy 

waits. 

Then take in hand thy lyre. 

Strike in thy proper strain ; 
"With Japhet's line aspire 
Sol's chariot for new fire 

To give the world again; 
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of 

Jove's brain. 

And since our dainty age 

Cannot endure reproof. 
Make not thyself a page 
To that strumpet, the stage ; 

But sing high and aloof 
Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the 

dull ass's hoof. 

Ben Jonson. 
40 



THE SHEPHEED'S HUNTING. 



AN ECLOGUE. 



THE AEGUMENT. 

PMlarete on Willy calls. 

To sing out Ms pastorals ; 

Warrants fame shall grace his rh^/mes, 

''/Spite of envy and the times; 

And shews how in care he uses 

To take comfort from his Muses. 



Pliilarete; Wi 



PHILAEETE. 



Petthee, Willy! tell me this — 
What new accident there is 
That thou, once the blithest lad, 
Art become so wond'rous sad, 
And so careless of thy quill. 
As if thou hadst lost thy skill ? 
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks, 
And among the massy rocks 
Hast so cheered me with thy song 
That I have forgot my wrong. 
Something hath thee surely crost. 
That thy old wont thou hast lost. 
Tell me — ^have I ought mis-said, 
That hath made thee ill-apaid ? 
Hath some churl done thee a spite ? 
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night? 
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass ? 
Or how comes this ill to pass ? 
Is there any discontent 
Worse than this my banishment ? 

Willy. 

Why, doth that so evil seem 
That thou nothing worse dost deem ? 
Shepherds there fuU many be 
That will change contents with thee ; 
Those that choose their walks at will, 
On the valley or the hiU — 
Or those pleasures boast of can 
Groves or fields may yield to man — 
Never come to know the rest, 
Wherewithal thy mind is blest. 
Many a one that oft resorts 
To make up the troop at sports. 



626 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And in company some while 
Happens to strain forth a smile, 
Feels more want and outward smart, 
And more inward grief of heart, 
Than this place can bring to thee, 
"While thy mind remaineth free. 
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth — 
But what find'st thou in this earth 
Wherein aught may be believed 
"Worth to make me joyed or grieved? 
And yet feel I, naitheless, 
Part of both I must confess. 
Sometime I of mirth do borrow- 
Other while as much of sorrow ; 
But my present state is such 
As nor joy nor grieve I much. 

PHILAEETE. 

"Why hath "Willy then so long 
Thus forborne his wonted song? 
"Wherefore doth he now let fall 
His well-tuned pastoral, 
And my ears that music bar 
Which I more long after far 
Than the liberty I want ? 

WILLY. 

That were very much to grant. 
But doth this hold alway, lad — 
Those that sing not must be sad ? 
Didst thou ever that bird hear 
Sing well that sings all the year? 
Tom the piper doth not play 
Till he wears his pipe away — 
There's a time to slack the string. 
And a time to leave to sing. 

PHILAEETE. 

Yea ! but no man now is still 
That can sing or tune a quill. 
NTow to chaunt it were but reason — ■ 
Song and music are in season. 
Now, in this sweet jolly tide, 
Is the Earth in all her pride ; 
The fair lady of the May, 
Trimmed up in her best array, 
Hath invited all the swains. 
With the lasses of the plains, 
To attend upon her sport 
At the places of resort. 



Coridon, with his bold rout. 

Hath already been about 

For the elder shepherd's dole. 

And fetched in the summer-pole ; 

Whilst the rest have built a bower 

To defend them from a shower — 

Coiled so close, with boughs all green, 

Titan cannot pry between. 

Now the dairy wenches dream 

Of their strawberries and cream ; 

And each doth herself advance 

To be taken in to dance ; 

Every one that knows to sing 

Fits him for his carolling ; 

So do those that hope for meed 

Either by the pipe or reed ; 

And, though I am kept away, 

I do hear, this very day, 

Many learned grooms do wend 

For the garlands to contend ; 

Which a nymph, that hight Desert, 

Long a stranger in this part. 

With her own fair hand hath wrought — 

A rare work, they say, past thought. 

As appeareth by the name, 

For she calls them wreaths of Fame. 

She hath set in their due place 

Every flower that may grace ; 

And among a thousand moe. 

Whereof some but serve for show. 

She hath wove in Daphne's tree. 

That they may not blasted be ; 

Which with Time she edged about, 

Lest the work should ravel out ; 

And that it might wither never, 

Intermixed it with Live- ever. 

These are to be shared among 

Those that do excel for song, 

Or their passions can rehearse 

In the smooth'st and sweetest verse. 

Then for those among the rest 

That can play and pipe the best, 

There's a kidling with the dam, 

A fat wether and a lamb. 

And for those that leapen far. 

Wrestle, run, and throw the bar. 

There's appointed guerdons too : 

He that best the first can do 

Shall for his reward be paid 

With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid 



I 



THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTIN.G. 627 


With fine bone of a strange beast 


But whate'er it be, I must 


That men bring out of the West ; 


Be content, and shall, I trust. 


For the next a scrip of red, 


For a song I do not pass 


Tasselled with fine colored thread ; 


'Mongst my friends ; but what, alas ! 


There's prepared for their meed 


Should I have to do with them 


That in running make most speed, 


That my music do contemn? 


Or the cunning measures foot. 


Some there are, as well I wot, 


Cups of turned maple-root, 


That the same yet favor not ; 


Whereupon the skilful man 


Yet I cannot well avow 


Hath engraved the loves of Pan ; 


They my carols disallow ; 


And the last hath for his due 


But such malice I have spied, 


A fine napkin wrought with blue. 


'T is as much as if they did. 


Then, my Willy, why art thou 




Careless of thy merit now ? 


PHILAEETE. 


What dost thou here, with a wight 


Willy ! what may those men be 


That is shut up from delight 


Are so ill to malice thee ? 


In a solitary den, 




As not fit to live with men? 


WILLY. 


Go, my Willy ! get thee gone — 


Some are worthy- well esteemed ; 


Leave me in exile alone ; 


Some without worth, are so deemed; 


Hie thee to that merry throng, 


Others of so base a spirit 


And amaze them with thy song ! 


They have nor esteem nor merit 


Thou art young, yet such a lay 




I^ever graced the month of May, 


PHILAEETE. 


As, if they provoke thy skill. 


What's the wrong ? . . . . 


Thou canst fit unto thy quill. 




I with wonder heard thee sing 


WILLY. 


At our last year's revelling. 


A slight offence, 


Then I with the rest was free. 


Wherewithal I can dispense ; 


When, unknown, I noted thee. 


But hereafter, for their sake. 


And perceived the ruder swains 


To myself I '11 music make. 


Envy thy far sweeter strains. 




Yea, I saw the lasses cling 


PHILAEETE. 


Bound about thee in a ring. 


What, because some clown offends, 


As if each one jealous were 


Wilt thou punish all thy friends ? 


Any but herself should hear ; 




And I know they yet do long 


WILLY. 


For the residue of thj^song. 


Do not, Phil ! misunderstand me— 


Haste thee then to sing it forth ; 


Those that love me may command me,* 


Take the benefit of worth ; 


But thou know'st I am but young, 


And Desert will sure bequeath 


And the pastoral I sung 


Fame's fair garland for thy wreath. 


Is by some supposed to be. 


Hie thee, Willy ! hie away. 


By a strain, too high for me ; 




So they kindly let me gain 


WILLY. 


Not my labor for my pain. 




Trust me, I do wonder why 


Phila ! rather let me stay, 


They should me ray own deny. 


And be desolate with thee. 


Though I 'm young, I scorn to flit 


Than at those their revels be. 


On the wings of borrowed wit ; 


Nought such is my skill, I wis, 


1 11 make my own feathers rear me, 


As indeed thou deem'st it is ; 


Whither others cannot bear me. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



Yet I '11 keep my skill in store, 
Till I Ve seen some winters more. 



PHILAEETE. 

But in earnest mean'st thou so? — 

Then thou art not wise, I trow : 

Better shall advise thee Pan, 

For thou dost not rightly then; 

That 's the ready way to blot 

All the credit thou hast got. 

Rather in thy age's prime 

Get another start of Time ; 

And make those that so fond be. 

Spite of their own dulness, see 

That the sacred Muses can 

Make a child in years a man. 

It is known what thou canst do ; 

For it is not long ago. 

When that Cuddy, thou and I, 

Each the other's skill to try. 

At Saint Dunstan's charmed well, 

As some present there can tell, 

Sang upon a sudden theme, 

Sitting by the crimson stream ; 

Where if thou didst well or no 

Yet remains the song to show. 

Much experience more I 've had 

Of thy skill, thou happy lad ; 

And would make the world to know it, 

But that time will further show it. 

Envy makes their tongues now run, 

More than doubt of what is done ; 

For that needs must be thine own. 

Or to be some other's known ; 

But how then will 't suit unto 

What thou shalt hereafter do ? 

Or I wonder where is he 

Would with that song part with thee ! 

Nay, were there so mad a swain 

Could such glory sell for gain, 

Phoebus would not have combined 

That gift with so base a mind. 

Never did the Nine impart 

The sweet secrets of their art 

Unto any that did scorn 

We should see their favors worn. 

Therefore, unto those that say 

Were they pleased to sing a lay 

They could do 't, and will not tho' 

This I speiik, for this I know — 



None e'er drank the Thespian spring. 

And knew how, but he did sing ; 

For, that once infused in man. 

Makes him shew 't, do what he can ; 

Nay, those that do only sip, 

Or but e'en their fingers dip 

In that sacred fount, poor elves ! 

Of that brood will show themselves. 

Yea, in hope to get them fame. 

They will speak, though to their shame. 

Let those, then, at thee repine 

That by their wits measure thine ; 

Needs those songs must be thine own. 

And that one day will be known. 

That poor imputation, too, 

I myself do undergo ; 

But it will appear, ere long. 

That 't was envy sought our wrong. 

Who, at twice ten, have sung more 

Than some will do at four score. 

Cheer thee, honest Willy ! then. 

And begin thy song again. 

WILLY. 

Fain I would ; but I do fear, 
When again my lines they hear, 
If they yield they are my rhymes. 
They will feign some other crimes ; 
And 't is no safe vent'ring by 
Where we see Detraction lie ; 
For, do what I can, I doubt 
She will pick some quarrel out ; 
And I oft have heard defended 
Little said is soon amended. 

PHILAEETE. 

See'st thou uQt, in clearest days 

Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays ? 

And that vapors, which do breathe 

From the Earth's gross womb beneath, 

Seem unto us with black steams 

To pollute the sun's bright beams — 

And yet vanish into air. 

Leaving it, unblemished, fair ? 

So, my Willy, shall it be 

With Detraction's breath on thee — 

It shall never rise so high 

As to stain thy poesy. 

As that Sim doth oft exhale 

Vapors from each rotten vale. 



THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. 629 


Poesy so sometimes drains 


"Whence she should be driven too, 


Gross conceits from muddy brains— 


Were 't in mortal's power to do. 


Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 


She doth tell me where to borrow 


"Twixt men's judgments and her light ; 


Comfort in the midst of sorrow, 


But so much her power may do 


Makes the desolatest place 


That she can dissolve them too. 


To her presence be a grace. 


If thy verse do bravely tower, 


And the blackest discontents 


As she makes wing she gets power ; 


To be pleasing ornaments. 


Yet the higher she doth soar 


In my former days of bliss 


She 's affronted still the more, 


Her divine skill taught me this — 


Till she to the highest hath past; 


That from every thing I saw 


Then she rests with Fame at last. 


I could some invention draw. 


Let nought, therefore, thee affright. 


And raise pleasure to her height 


But make forward in thy flight. 


Through the meanest object's sight ; 


For, if I could match thy rhyme, 


By the murmur of a spring, 


To the very stars I 'd climb ; 


Or the least bough's rusteling — ■ 


There begin again, and fly 


By a daisy, whose leaves, spread. 


Till I reached eternity. 


Shut when Titan goes to bed — 


But, alas ! my Muse is slow — 


Or a shady bush or tree. 


For thy place she flags too low ; 


She could more infuse in me 


Yea — the more 's her hapless fate — 


Than all nature's beauties can 


Her short wings were dipt of late ; 


In some other wiser man. 


And poor I, her fortune ruing, 


By her help I also now 


And myself put up a-mewing. 


Make this churlish place allow 


But if I my cage can rid. 


Some things that may sweeten gladness 


I '11 fly where I never did ; 


In the very gall of sadness : 


And though for her sake I'm crost, 


The duU loneness, the black shade 


Though my best hopes I have lost. 


That these hanging-vaults have made ; 


And knew she would make my trouble 


The strange music of the waves, 


Ten times more than ten times double, 


Beating on these hollow caves ; 


I should love and keep her too. 


This black den, which rocks emboss. 


'Spite of all the world could do. 


Overgrown with eldest moss ; 


For, though banished from my flocks. 


The rude portals that give light 


And confined within these rocks. 


More to terror than delight ; 


Here I waste away the light. 


This my chamber of neglect. 


And consume the sullen night. 


Walled about with disrespect ; — 


She doth for my comfort stay. 


From all these, and this dull air, 


And keeps many cares away. 


A fit object for despair. 


Though I miss the flow'ry fields. 


She hath taught me, by her might, 


With those sweets the spring -tide 


To draw comfort and deliglit. 


yields — 


Therefore, thou best earthly bliss ! 


Though I may not see these groves 


I will cherish thee for this. 


Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, 


Poesy, thou sweet'st content 


And the lasses more excel 


That e'er Heaven to mortals lent ! 


Than the sweet-voiced Philomel — 


Though they as a trifle leave thee 


Though of all those pleasures past 


Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive 


Nothing now remains at last 


thee — 


But remembrance, poor relief. 


Though thou be to them a scorn 


That more makes than mends my grief- 


That to nought but earth are born — 


She 's my mind's companion still, 


Let my life no longer be 


Maugre envy's evil will ; 


Than I am in love with thee ; 



630 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Though our wise ones call thee madness, 


Frosts we see do nip that thing 


Let me never taste of gladness 


Which is forward'st in the spring ; 


If I love not thy madd'st fits 


Yet at last, for all such lets, 


More than all their greatest wits ; 


Somewhat of the rest it gets ; 


And though some, too seeming holj, 


And I 'ra sure that so mayst thou. 


Do account thy raptures folly, 


Therefore, my kind Willy, now, 


Thou dost teach me to contemn 


Since thy folding-time draws on, 


What makes knaves and fools of them. 


And I see thou must be gone. 


high power ! that oft doth carry 


Thee I earnestly beseech 


Men ahove 


To remember this my speech. 




And some little counsel take. 


WILLY. 


For Philarete his sake ; 


.... Good Philarete, tarry ! 


And I more of this will say. 


I do fear thou wilt he gone 


If thou come next holiday. 


Quite above my reach anon. 


Geoege Witiebb. 


The kind flames of poesy 

TX 1 i1 it t 1 t * "% 




Have now borne thy thoughts so high 




That they up in heaven be, 




And have quite forgotten me. 


COWPER'S GRAVE. 


Call thyself to mind again — 




Are these raptures for a swain 


I will inTite thee, from thy envious hearse 


That attends on lowly sheep, 


To rise, and 'bout the -world thy berms to spread, 


And with simple herds doth keep ? 


That we may see there 's brightness in the dead. 

Haekingtox. 


PHILAEETE. 


It is a place where poets crowned 


Thanks, my Willy ! I had run 


May feel the heart's decaying — 


Till that Time had lodged the sun. 


It is a place where happy saints 


If thou hadst not made me stay ; 


May weep amid their praying ; 


But thy pardon here I pray ; 


Yet let the grief and humbleness, 


Loved Apollo's sacred sire 


As low as silence, languish — 


Had raised up my spirits higher, 


Earth surely now may give her calm 


Through the love of poesy. 


To whom she gave her anguish. 


Than indeed they use to fly. 




But as I said I say still — 




If that I had Willy's skill 


poets ! from a maniac's tongue 


Envy nor Detraction's tongue 


Was poured the deathless singing! 


Should e'er make me leave my song ; 


Christians ! at your cross of hope 


But I 'd sing it every day, 


A hopeless hand was clinging ! 


Till they pined themselves away. 


men ! this man, in brotherhood. 


Be thou then advised in this. 


Your weary paths beguiling. 


Which both just and fitting is — 


Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 


Finish what thou hast begun, 


And died while ye were smiling ! 


Or at least still forward run. 




Hail and thunder ill he '11 bear 


And now, what time ye all may read 


That a blast of wind doth fear ; 


Through dimming tears his story — 


And if words will thus aff'ray thee. 


How discord on the music fell. 


Prythee how will deeds dismay thee ? 


And darkness on the glory — 


Do not think so rathe a song 


And how, when one by one, sweet sounds 


Can pass through the vulgar throng, 


And wandering lights departed. 


And escape without a touch — 


He wore no less a loving face, 


Or that they can hurt it much. 


Because so broken-hearted — 



COWPEK'S GKAVE 



631 



He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken — 
Named softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

I learn to think upon him ; 
"With meekness that is gratefulness, 

On God whose heaven hath won him — 
"Who suffered once the madness-cloud 

Toward his love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shattered brain 

Such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass, 

His own did calmly number ; 
And silent shadow from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing, 
Its women and its men became, 

Beside him, true and loving ! — 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

With sylvan tendernesses. 

But while in blindness he remained 

Unconscious of the guiding. 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth, 

Though frenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy. 

When only God created ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses, 
And droppeth on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses ; 



That turns his fevered eyes around — 
" My mother ! where 's my mother ? " — 

As if such tender words and looks 
Could come from any other — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart 

He sees her bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, 

Th' unweary love she bore him ! 
Thus woke the poet from the dream 

His life's long fever gave him. 
Beneath these deep pathetic eyes 

Which closed in death to save him ! 

Thus ! O, not thus ! no type of earth 

Could image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant 

Of seraphs, round him breaking — 
Or felt the new immortal throb 

Of soul from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew 

"My Saviour! not deserted ! " 

Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 

The cross in darkness rested, 
Upon the victim's hidden face 

No love was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have e'er 

Th' atoning drops averted — 
What tears have washed them from the 
soul — 

That one should be deserted? 

Deserted ! God could separate 

From His own essence rather ; 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

The righteous Son and Father — 
Yea! once, Immanuel's orphaned cry 

His universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, 

"My God, I am forsaken! " 

It went up from the Holy lips 

Amid His lost creation, 
That of the lost no son should use 

Those words of desolation ; 
That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope. 

Should mar not hope's fruition ; 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 

His rapture, in 'a vision ! 

Elizabeth Bakeett Beowi^ing. 



632 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



THE YISIOK 



DUAN FIEST. 



The sun Lad closed the winter day, 
Tlie curlers quat their roaring plaj, 
An' hungered raaukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

"Whar she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
Tho lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had closed his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence right pensivelie 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
That fiUed, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 

I backward mused on wasted time — 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae thing 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash-account ; 
"While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, muttering, "blockhead! coof !" 
And heaved on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme proof 

Till my last breath — 

When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. 

Come full in sight. 



Ye need na doubt I held my whist — 
The infant aith, half-formed, was crusht ; 
I glowered as eerie 's I 'd been dush't 

In some wild glen, 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse 

By that same token. 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A "hair-brained sentimental trace" 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildy-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turned on empty space. 

Beamed keen with honor. 

Down flowed her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! — ^my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

I^^ane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand, 
And seemed, to my astonished view, 

A well-known land. 

Here rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here tumbling billows marked the coast 

With surging foam ; 
There distant shone art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods ; 
There well-fed Irwine stately thuds ; 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 

An ancient borough reared her head ; 



THE VISION. 



683 



Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polished grace. 

By stately tower or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air. 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, . 

I could discern ; 
Some seemed to muse — some seemed to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seemed to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 

His country's saviour, mark him well ! 
Bold Kichardton's heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptered Pictish shade 
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid, 
I marked a martial race, portrayed 

In colors strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed, 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love). 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned sire and son I saw : 
To nature's Grod and nature's law 

They gave their lore ; 
This, all its source and end to draw — 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward I well could spy 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye. 
Who called on Fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on 
Where many a patriot-name on high. 

And hero shone. 



DIJAN SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonished stare, 
I viewed the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet. 
When, with an elder sister's air, 

She did me greet ; — 

All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ; 
IsTor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

Know the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labors ply. 

They Scotia's race among them share : 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard — a darling care — 

The tuneful art. 

'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore 
They ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or 'mid the venal senate's roar 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot lore. 

And grace the land. 

And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His minstrel lays ; 
Or tore, with noble ardor stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 



634 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


To lower orders are assigned 


And joy and music pouring forth 


The humbler ranks of human kind : 


In every grove. 


The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 


I saw thee eye the general mirth 


The artisan — 


With boundless love. 


All choose, as various they 're inclined, 




The various man. 


When ripened fields and azure skies 




Called forth the reapers' rustling noise. 


When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein : 


I saw thee leave their evening joys, 
And lonely stalk 


O O 4/ 7 

Some teach to meliorate the plain 


To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 


With tillage skill; 


In pensive walk. 


And some insti-uct the shepherd train. 


When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 


Blythe o'er the hiU. 


Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 




Those accents grateful to thy tongue. 


Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 


Th' adored name. 


Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 


I taught thee how to pour in song. 


Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil 


To sooth thy flame. 


For humble gains, 




And make his cottage-scenes beguile 


I saw thy pulse's maddening play 


His cares and pains. 


WUd send thee pleasure's devious way, 




Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 


Some, bounded to a district-space. 


By passion driven ; 


Explore at large man's infant race, 


But yet the light that led astray 


To mark the embryotic trace, 


Was light from Heaven. 


Of rustic bard ; 




And careful note each op'ning grace — 


I taught thy manners-painting strains, 


A guide and guard. 


The loves, the ways of simple swains — 
TiU now, o'er all my wide domains 


Of these am I — Coila my name ; 


Thy fame extends, 


And this district as mine I claim. 


And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 


Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. 


Become thy friends. 


Held ruling pow'r ; 


Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 


I marked thy embryo tuneful flame, 


To paint with Thomson's landscape glow; 


Thy natal hour. 


Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 




With Shenstone's art ; 


With future hope I oft would gaze. 


Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 


Fond, on thy little early ways, 


Warm on the heart. 


Thy rudely carolled, chiming phrase 




In uncouth rhymes. 


Yet all beneath th' unrivalled rose 


Fired at the simple artless lays 


The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 


Of other times. 


Though large the forest's monarch throws 




His army shade. 


I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 


Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows 


Delighted with the dashing roar ; 


Adown the glade. 


Or when the North his fleecy store 




Drove through the sky, 


Then never murmur nor repine ; 


I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 


Strive in thy humble sphere to shme ; 


Struck thy young eye. 


And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 




Nor kings' regard. 


Or when the deep green-mantled earth 


Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine. 


Warm cherished every flow'ret's birth, 


A rustic bard. 

1 



I 



ON THE DEATH OF BUENS. 635 


To give my counsels all in one — 


Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 


Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 


In opening youth's delightful prime, 


Preserve the dignity of man, 


Than when thy favoring ear he drew 


"With soul erect ; 


To listen to his chanted rhyme. 


And trust the Universal Plan 




WiU aU protect. 


Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 




To him were aU with rapture fraught ; 


And wear thou this ! — she solemn said, • 


He heard with joy the tempest rise 


And bound the holly round my head ; 


That waked him to sublimer thought ; 


The polished leaves and berries red 


And oft thy winding dells he sought. 


Did rustling play — 


Where wild flowers poured their rathe per- 


And, like a passing thought, she fled 


fume. 


In light away. 


And with sincere devotion brought 


KOBEET BlTENS. 


To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 
But ah ! no fond maternal smile 






His unprotected youth enjoyed — 


ON" THK. DEATH OF BUKNS. 


His limbs inured to early toil, 


• 


His days with early hardships tried ! 


Eeae high thy bleak majestic hills, 


And more to mark the gloomy void, 


Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread — 


And bid him feel his misery. 


And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 


Before his infant eyes would glide 


And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 


Day-dreams of immortality. 


But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 




Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 


Yet, not by cold neglect depressed. 


Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 


With sinewy arm he turned the soil, 


That ever breathed the soothing strain ? 


Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 




And met at morn his earliest smile. 


As green thy towering pines may grow. 


Waked by his rustic pipe meanwhile, 


As clear thy streams may speed along, 


The powers of fancy came along. 


As bright thy summer suns may glow, 


And soothed his lengthened hours of toil 


As gayly charm thy feathery throng ; 


With native wit and sprightly song. 


But now unheeded is the song. 




And dull and lifeless all around — 


Ah ! days of bliss too swiftly fled, 


For his wild harp lies all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 


When vigorous health from labor springs, 
And bland contentment soothes the bed, 




And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 


What though thy vigorous offspring rise — 


And hovering round on airy wings 


In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 


Float the light forms of young desire, 


Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 


That of unutterable things 


And health in every feature dwell ; 


The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 


Yet who shall now their praises tell 




In strains impassioned, fond, and free, 


N'ow spells of mightier power prepare — 


Since he no more the song shall swell 


Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 


To love, and liberty, and thee ! 


o a. 7 

Let flattery spread ner viewless snare. 




And fame attract his vagrant glance ; 


With step-dame eye and frown severe 


Let sprightly pleasure too advance. 


His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 


Unveiled her eyes, unclasped her zone — 


For all thy joys to him were dear. 


Till, lost in love's dehrious trance, 


And all his vows to thee were due ; 


He scorn the joys his youth has known. 



636 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasures unconfined, 
And confidence that spurns control. 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind ! 

And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendor vies, 
Or science bids her favored throng 

To more refined sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polished life. 

Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let despair with wizard light 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe ; 

And show beneath a cheerless shed. 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 
In silent grief where droops her head 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infants' tender cries 

His fond parental succour claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband's and a father's name. 

'T is done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the poet^ ardent eyes. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread. 

And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 



But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign — 

Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead 
That ever breathed the soothing strain. 
William Eoscoe. 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 

SEVEN TEAES AFTEE HIS DEATH. 

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold. 
At thought of what I now behold : 
As vapors breathed from dungeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near, 
And thou forbidden to appear ? 
As if it were thyself that 's here, 

I shrink with pain ; 
And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight, — nor press on weight ! — away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay ; 
With chastened feelings would I pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

Erom mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth — 
Rose like a star that, touching earth, 

(For so it seems) 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 
The struggling heart, where be they now ? — 
Full soon the aspirant of the plough. 

The prompt, the brave. 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 

And silent grave. 

I mourned with thousands — but as one 
More deeply grieved ; for he was gone 
Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 

And showed my youth 
How verse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 



BURNS. 



637 



Alas ! where'er the current tends 
Regret pursues and with it blends ! 
Huge Oriffel's hoarj top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen ; 
Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been — 

True friends, though diversely inclined; 
But heart with heart and mind with niind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined 

Through nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow; 
Thou "poor inhabitant below," 
At this dread moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sat and talked where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been placed 
Within my reach ! of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repast ! 

But why go on ? — 
. spare to sweep, thou mournful blast. 

His grave grass-grown. 

There, too, a son, his joy and pride, 
(IvTot three weeks past the stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his father's side — 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight. 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead — 

Harbored where none can be misled. 

Wronged, or distrest ; 
And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And ! for thee, by pitying grace 
Checked ofttimes in a devious race — 
May He who halloweth the place 

Where man is laid, 
Eeceive thy spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed ! 

Sighing, I turned away ; but ere 
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 
Music that sorrow comes not near — 

A ritual hymn. 
Chanted, in love that casts out fear. 

By seraphim. 



THOUGHTS, 

SUGGESTED THE DAT FOLLOWING, ON THE 
BANKS OF NITH, NEAE THE POEt's EESI- 
DENCE. 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
That must have followed when his brow 
Was wreathed — "The Vision" tells us 
how — 

With holly spray, 
He faltered, drifted to and fro, 

And passed away. 

Well might such thoughts, dear sister, 

throng 
Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
Over the grave of Burns we hung 

In social grief, — 
Indulged as if it were a wrong 

To seek relief. 

But, leaving each unquiet theme 
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem. 
And prompt to welcome every gleam 

Of good and fair, 
Let us beside this limpid stream 

Breathe hopeful air. 

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ! 
Think rather of those moments bright 
When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true — 
When wisdom prospered in his sight, 

And virtue grew. 

Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
Freely as in youth's season bland, 
When, side by side, his book in hand, 

We wont to stray. 
Our pleasure varying at command 

Of each sweet lay. 

How oft, inspired, must he have trod 
These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
There lurks his home ; in that abode, 

With mirth elate, 
Or in his nobly pensive mood, 

The rustic sate. 



638 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Proud thoughts that image overawes ; 


Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns ! 


Before it humbly let us pause, 


The moorland flower and peasant ! 


And ask of Nature from what cause. 


How, at their mention, Memory turns 


And by what rules, 


Her pages old and pleasant! 


She trained her Burns to win applause 




That shames the schools. 


The gray sky wears again its gold 




And purple of adorning, 


Through busiest street and loneliest glen 


And manhood's noonday shadows hold 


Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 


The dews of boyhood's morning — 


He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 




Bees fill their hives ; 


The dews that washed the dust and soil 


Deep in the general heart of men 


From off the wings of pleasure — 


His power survives. 


The sky that flecked the ground of toil 




With golden threads of leisure. 


What need of fields in some far clime 




Where heroes, sages, bards sublime. 


I call to mind the summer day — 


And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 


The early harvest mowing. 


From genuine springs, 


The sky with sun and cloud at play. 


Shall dwell together till old Time 


And flowers with breezes blowing. 


Folds up his wings ? 






I hear the blackbird in the corn, 


Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 


The locust in the haying ; 


This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven— 


And, like the fabled hunter's horn. 


The rueful conflict, the heart riven 


Old tunes my heart is playing. 


With vain endeavor. 




And memory of earth's bitter leaven, 

T7<J3C> J J? 


How oft that day, with fond delay. 


Effaced for ever. 


I sought the maple's shadow. 




And sang with Burns the hours away, 


But why to him confine the prayer. 


Forgetful of the meadow ! 


When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 




On the frail heart the purest share 


Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead 


With all that live ?— 


I heard the squirrels leaping — 


The best of what we do and are, 


The good dog listened while I read, 


Just God, forgive ! 


And wagged his tail in keeping. 


"William "Woedswoeth. 






I watched him while in sportive mood 




I read "The Twa Dogs' " story. 




And half believed he understood 


BUENS. 


The poet's allegory. 


No more these simple flowers belong 


Sweet day, sweet songs ! — ^The golden hours 


To Scottish maid and lover — 


Grew brighter for that singing, 


Sown in the common soil of song. 


From brook and bird and meadow flowers 


They bloom the wide world over. 


A dearer welcome bringing. 


In smiles and tears, in sun and showers. 


ISTew light on home-seen nature beamed. 


The minstrel and the heather — 


New glory over woman ; 


The deathless singer and the flowers 


And daily life and duty seemed 


He sang of— live together. 


No longer poor and common. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 639 


I woke to find the simple truth 


Let those who never erred forget 


Of fact and feeling better 


His worth, in vain bewailings ; 


Than all the dreams that held my youth 


Sweet Soul of Song ! — I own my debt 


A still repining debtor— 


Uncancelled by his failings ! 


That nature gives her handmaid, art, 


Lament who will the ribald line 


The themes of sweet discoursing, 


Which tells his lapse from duty — 


The tender idyls of the heart 


How kissed the maddening lips of wine. 


In every tongue rehearsing. 


Or wanton ones of beauty — 




But think, while falls that shade between 


Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, 


The erring one and heaven, 
That he who loved like Magdalen, 


Of loving knight and lady, 


When farmer-boy and barefoot girl 
Were wandering there already ? 


Like her may be forgiven. 




Not his the song whose thunderous chime 


I saw through all familiar things 


Eternal echoes render — 


The romance underlying — 


The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, 


The joys and griefs that plume the wings 


And Milton's starry splendor ! 


Of Fancy skyward flying. 






But who his human heart has laid 


I saw the same blithe day return, 


To nature's bosom nearer ? 


The same sweet fall of even, 


Who sweetened toil like him, or paid 


That rose on wooded Oraigie-burn, 


To love a tribute dearer ? 


And sank on crystal Devon. 






Through all his tuneful art how strong 


I matched with Scotland's heathery hills 


The human feeling gushes ! 


The sweet-brier and the clover — 


The very moonlight of his song 


With Ayr and Doon my native rills. 


Is warm with smiles and blushes ! 


Their wood-hymns chanting over. 






Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, 


O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen. 


So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry! 


I saw the Man uprising — 


Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, 


No longer common or unclean, 


But spare his Highland Mary ! 


The child of God's baptizing 
With clearer eyes I saw the worth 


John Gebenleaf "Whittiee. 




Of life among the lowly ; 




The Bible at his Cotter's hearth 


ON FIEST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 


Had made my own more holy. 


HOMEK. 




Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 


And if at times an evil strain. 


And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 


To lawless love appealing, 


Eound many western islands have I been 


Broke in upon the sweet refrain 


Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 


Of pure and healthful feeling. 


Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 




That deep-browed Homer ruled as his de- 


It died upon the eye and ear. 


mesne ; 


No inward answer gaining ; 


Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 


No heart had I to see or hear 


Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 


The discord and the staining. 


bold: 



640 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild surmise- 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

JoBCN Keats. 



UHLAKD. 

It is the poet Uhland, from whose wreath- 
ings 
Of rarest harmony I here have drawn, 
To lower tones and less melodious breathings, 
Some simple strains, of youth and passion 
born. 

His is the poetry of sweet expression — 
Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and 
strong — 
"Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft 
procession, 
Move to the even measures of his song. 

Delighting ever in his own calm fancies, 
He sees much beauty where most men see 
naught — 
Looking at nature with familiar glances. 
And weaving garlands in the groves of 
thought. 

He sings of youth, and hope, and high en- 
deavor ; 

He siQgs of love — crown of poesy! — 
Of fate, and sorrow, and the grave — forever 

The end of strife, the goal of destiny. 

He sings of Fatherland, the minstrel's glory — 
High theme of memory and hope divine — 

Twining its fame with gems of antique story, 
In Suabian songs and legends of the Khine; 

In ballads breathing many a dim tradition, 

Nourished in long belief or minstrel rhymes, 
Fruit of the old romance, whose gentle mis- 
sion 
Passed from the earth before our wiser 
times. 



Well do they know his name among the 
mountains. 
And plains and valleys, of his native land ; 
Part of their nature are the sparkling foun- 
tains 
Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies 
spanned. 

His simple lays oft sings the mother, cheerful, 
Beside the cradle in the dim twilight ; 

His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden, 
tearful, 
With tender murmurs in the ear of night. 

The hUlside swain, the reaper in the mead- 
ows, 

Carol his ditties through the toilsome day; 
And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows 

Kecalls his ballads by some ruin gray. 

precious gift ! wondrous inspiration ! 

Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things, 
To be the oracle, while a whole nation 

Catches the echo from the sounding strings ! 

Out of the depths of feeling and emotion 
Eises the orb of song, serenely bright — 

As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean, 
The golden sunrise bursting into light. 

Wide is its magic world — divided neither 

By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone ; 
Who would not wish sometimes to travel 
thither. 
In fancied fortunes to forget his own ? 

William Allen Bxjtlee. 



THE GEAYE OF A POETESS. 

Let her be laid within a silent dell, 

Where hanging trees throw round a twilight 

gleam — 
Just within hearing of some village-bell. 
And by the margin of a low- voiced stream ; 
For these were sights and sounds she once 

loved well. 
Then o'er her grave the star-paved sky will 

beam: 



ODE. ' 64i 


"While all around the fragrant wild-flowers 


. 


blow, 
And sweet birds sing her requiem to the wa- 


ODE. 


ter's flow. 

Thomas Millee. 


Baeds of Passion and of Mirth, 




Ye have left your souls on earth I 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 






Double-lived in regions new ? 


SONNET. 


Yes, and those of heaven commune 


The nightingale is mute — and so art thou, 
Whose voice is sweeter than the nightin- 


With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous. 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 


gale; 
While every idle scholar makes a vow 
Above thy worth and glory to prevail. 


With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 


Yet shall not envy to that level bring 
The true precedence which is born in thee ; 

Thou art no less the prophet of the Spring, 
Though in the woods thy voice now silent 
be. 


Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daises are rose-scented. 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not ; 


Where the nightingale doth sing 


For silence may impair, but cannot kill 
The music that is native to thy soul ; 

Nor thy sweet mind, in this thy froward will, 
Upon thy purest honor have control : 

But, since thou wilt not to our wishes sing. 


Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine, melodious truth — 
Philosophic numbers smooth — 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 


This truth I speak — thou art of poets king. 

LoED Thuelow. 


Thus ye live on high, and then 




On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 




TO MAOAUT.AY. 


Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying, 


The dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
Falls heavy on our ears no more ; 
And by long strides are left behind 


Never slumbered, never cloying. 
Here your earth-born souls stUl speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 


The dear delights of womankind, 
Who wage their battles like their loves. 
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves. 
And have achieved the crowning work 


Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 


When they have trussed and skewered a Turk. 
Another comes with stouter tread. 


Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 


And stalks among the statelier dead : 




He rushes on, and hails by turns 
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns; 
And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
WiU lag behind, what Eomans were. 
When all the Tuscans and their Lars 


Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ! 

John Keats. 


Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 


Waltek Savage Landoe. 




41 ♦ 







642 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



THE MINSTREL. 

" What voice, what harp, are those we hear 

Beyond the gate in chorus ? 
Go, page ! — the lay delights our ear ; 

"We '11 have it sung before us ! " 
So speaks the king : the stripling flies — 
He soon returns ; his master cries — 

" Bring in the hoary minstrel I " 

" Hail, princes mine ! Hail, noble knights ! 

All hail, enchanting dames! 
What starry heaven ! What blinding lights ! 

Whose tongue may tell their names? 
In this bright hall, amid this blaze. 
Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze 

On such stupendous glories ! " 

The minnesinger closed his eyes ; 

He struck his mighty lyre : 
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs, 

And warriors felt on fire ; 
The king, enraptured by the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 

Be given the bard in guerdon. 

" Not so ! Reserve thy chain, thy gold, 
For those brave knights whose glances, 

Fierce flashing through the battle bold, 
Might shiver sharpest lances ! 

Bestow it on thy treasurer there — 

The golden burden let him bear 
With other glittering burdens. 

" I sing as in the greenwood bush 

The cageless wild-bird carols — 
The tones that from the full heart gush 

Themselves are gold and laurels ! 
Yet might I ask, then thus I ask — 
Let one bright cup of wine, in flask 

Of glowing gold, be brought me ! " 

They set it down ; he quaffs it all — 

" ! draught of richest flavor ! 
! thrice divinely happy hall 

Where that is scarce a favor ! 
If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me ; 
And thank your God as I thank ye 

For this delicious wine-cup ! " 

JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe (German). 
Translation of James Clarence Mangan. 



SONNET. 

Who best can paint th' enamelled robe of 

Spring, 

With flow'rets and fair blossoms well be- 

dight ; 

Who best can her melodious accents sing, 

With which she greets the soft return of 

light; 

Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage. 

And make th' imperial arch of Heav'n to 

groan — 

Breed warfare with the winds, and finely 

wage 

Great strife with Neptune on his rocky 

throne — 

Or lose us in those sad and mournful days 

With which pale Autumn crowns the misty 

year. 

Shall bear the prize, and in his true essays 

A poet in our awful eyes appear ; 

For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile, 

Gold, praise, and woman's thrice-endearing 

smile. 

LOED Thuelow. 



A POET'S THOUGHT. 

Tell me, what is a poet's thought ? 

Is it on the sudden born ? 
Is it from the starlight caught? 
Is it by the tempest taught ? - 

Or by whispering morn ? 

Was it cradled in the brain ? 

Chained awhile, or nursed in night? 
Was it wrought with toil and pain ? 
Did it bloom and fade again, 

Ere it burst to light? 

No more question of its birth : 
Rather love its better part ! 
'T is a thing of sky and earth, 
Gathering all its golden worth 
From the poet's heart. 

Baeey Cornwall. 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 



643 



EESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 



There was a roaring in the wind all night — 

The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 

But now the sun is rising calm and bright— 

The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 

Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove 
broods ; 

The jay makes answer as the "magpie chat- 
ters; 

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of 
waters. . . 



All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the 

moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist that, glittering in the sun, 
Runs with her all the way, wherever she 

doth run. 



I was a traveller then upon the moor ; 
I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; 
I heard the woods and distant waters roar — 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy. 
The pleasant season did my heart employ ; 
My old remembrances went from me wholly — 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melan- 
choly. 



But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the 

might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low — 
To me that morning did it happen so ; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came — 
Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, 
nor could name. 

v. 
I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare : 



Even such a happy child of earth am I ; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all care. 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

VI. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant 

thought. 
As if life's business were a summer mood — 
As if all needful things would come unsought 
To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
But how can he expect that others should 
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
Love him, who for himself will take no heed 
at all? 



I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy. 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ; 
Of him who walked in glory and in joy. 
Following his plough, along the mountain 

side. 
By our own spirits we are deified ; 
"We poets in our youth begin in gladness. 
But thereof come in the end despondency 

and madness. 



Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given. 
Yet it befell that, in this lonely place, 
When I with these untoward thoughts had 

striven. 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a man before me unawares — 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 

gray hairs. 



As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 
Wonder to all who do the same espy 
By what means it could hither come, and 

whence ; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense — 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun it- 
self— 



644 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



X. 

Sucli seemed this man, not all alive nor dead, 
Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 
His bodj was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage. 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness, felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame 
had cast. 

XI. 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 
And still, as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood, 
That heareth not the loud winds when they 

call, 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

XII. 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon that muddy water, which he conned 
As if he had been reading in a book. 
And now a stranger's privilege I took ; 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say 
" This morning gives us promise of a glorious 
day." 

XIII . 

A gentle answer did the old man make. 

In courteous speech which forth he slowly 

drew; 
And him with farther words I thus bespake : 
" What occupation do you there pursue ? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid 

eyes. 

xrv. 
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest ; 
But each in solemn order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest, — 
Choice word and measured phrase, above the 

reach 
Of ordinary men, a stately speech. 
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use — 
Keligious men, who give to God and man 

their dues. 



XV. 

He told that to these waters he had come 

To gather leeches, being old and poor — 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 

And he had many hardships to endure ; 

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor 
to moor — 

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or 
chance ; 

And in this way he gained an honest mainte- 
nance. 

XVI. 

The old man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard, nor word from word could I 

divide ; 
And the whole body of the man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream — 
Or like a man from some far region sent 
To give me human strength by apt admonish- 
ment. 

XVII. 

My former thoughts returned : the fear that 

kills, 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 
And mighty poets in their misery dead. 
— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew — 
"How is it that you live, and what is it you 

do?" 

xvin. 

He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
And said that, gathering leeches, far and 

wide 
He travelled, stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on every side, 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I 

may." 

XIX. 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place. 
The old man's shape and speech — all troubled 

me; 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 



ODE ON A GRECIAN FEN. 



645 



About the weary moors continually, 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse 
renewed. 



And soon with this he other matter blend- 
ed— 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, 
But stately in the main ; and when he ended 
I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find 
In that decrepit man so firm a mind. 
" God," said I, " be my help and stay secure ; 
I '11 think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely 

moor! " 

William Woedswokth, 



A¥ EXHORTATION". 

Chameleons feed on light and air — 

Poets' food is love and fame ; 
If in this wide world of care 

Poets could but find the same 
"With as little toil as they. 

Would they ever change their hue 

As the light chameleons do, 
Suiting it to every ray 
Twenty times a-day? 

Poets are on this cold earth 

As chameleons might be, 
Hidden from their early birth 

In a cave beneath the sea : 
Where light is, chameleons change — 

Where love is not, poets do. 

Fame is love disguised; if few 
Find either, never think it strange 
That poets range. 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind ; 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind. 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are : 

Children of a sunnier star, 
Spirits from beyond the moon, 
0, refuse the boon ! 

Peecy Bysshe Shelly. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN" URN. 

Thou still nnravished bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time ! 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
rhyme! 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy 
shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these ? what maid- 
ens loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild 
ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play 
on — 
!Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! 
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not 
leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold lover, never, never, canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal ; yet do not 
grieve — 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not 
thy bliss ; 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
For ever panting and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and 
cloyed, 
A burning forehead and a parching 
tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands 
drest? 



646 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


What little town by river or sea shore, 




Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 


L'ALLEGEO. 


Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 




And, little town, thj streets for evermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell 


Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight 


Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 


born ! 




In Stygian cave forlorn. 


Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 


'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and 


Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 


sights unholy. 


With forest branches and the trodden weed ! 


Find out some uncouth cell. 


Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of 


Where brooding Darkness spreads his 


thought, 


jealous wings. 


As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! 


And the night-raven sings ; 


When old age shall this generation waste. 


There, under ebon shades, and low- 


Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 


browed rocks. 


Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 


As ragged as thy locks. 


say'st 


In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 


"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"— that is aU 


But come, thou goddess fair and free, 


Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 


In heav'n y-cleped Euphrosyne, 


know. 


And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ! 


John Kkats. 


Whom lovely Yenus, at a birth 




With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 






Or whether (as some sages sing) 


THE MEANS TO ATTAIN" HAPPY LIFE. 


The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 




Zephyr, with Aurora playing — 


Maetial, the things that do attain 


As he met her once a-Maying — 


The happy life be these, I find — 


There, on beds of violets blue 


The riches left, not got with pain ; 


And fresh-blown roses washed in dew. 


The fruitful ground, the quie\ mind. 


Filled her with thee, a daughter fail'. 




So buxom, bhthe, and debonair. 


The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ; 




No charge of rule, nor governance ; 


Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 


Without disease, the healthful life; 


Jest, and youthful Jollity — 


The household of continuance ; 


Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 




Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 




Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 


The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 


And love to live in dimple sleek — 


True wisdom joined with sunpleness ; 


Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come ! and trip it, as you go, 


The night discharged of all care. 
Where wine the wit may not oppress; 




On the light fantastic toe ; 


The faithful wife, without debate ; 


And in thy right hand lead with thee 


Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; 


The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 


Contented with thine own estate. 


And if I give thee honor due, 


Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 


. Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 


LOED SUEEET. 


To live with her, and live with thee, 




In unreproved pleasures free — 
To hear the lark begin his flight. 






And singing startle the duU night 



L'ALLEGRO. 



647 



From his watch-tow'r in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good morrow, 
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine ; 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, - 
And to the stack, or the barn door. 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 
From the side of some hoar hUl 
Through the high wood echoing shrill ; 
Sometime walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Eight against the eastern gate. 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Eobed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe. 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 



Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas- 
ures. 
Whilst the landscape round it measures 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray — 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest — 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some beauty lies. 
The cynosure of neigboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met. 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes. 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
Or, if the earlier season lead. 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. 



Sometimes with secure delight 

The upland hamlets will invite. 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth, and many a maid. 

Dancing in the chequered shade ; 

And young and old come forth to jjlay 

On a sunshine holiday. 

Till the live-long daylight fail ; 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale 

With stories told of many a feat : 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat — 

She was pinched and pulled, she said, 

And he by friar's lantern led ; 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 

That ten day-laborers could not end ; 

Then lies him down the lubber fiend. 

And stretched out all the chimney's length. 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 

And, crop-fuU, out of doors he flings 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 

By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then. 
And the busy hum of men. 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold — 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffi'on robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With mask, and antique pageantry — 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream ; 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares. 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 



648 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



In notes with many a winding bout 

Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning 

The melting voice through mazes running, 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony — 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto, to have quite set free 

His half regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO. 

Hexce, vain deluding joys. 

The brood of folly without father bred ! 
B-Ow little you bestead, 

Or fill the fixed mind with aU your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain. 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes pos- 
sess. 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun- 
beams — 
Or likest hovering dreams. 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy ! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue — 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee briglit-haired Yesta, long of yore. 
To solitary Saturn bore — 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 



Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of cypress lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn ! 
Come ! but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 
There, held in holy passion still. 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad, leaden, downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet — 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne — 
The cherub Contemplation ; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song 
In her sweetest, saddest plight, 
Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of fol- 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering moon 
Riding near her highest noon. 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heav'n's wide pathless way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound 
Over some wide-watered shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
Or if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit. 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom — 



IL PENSEROSO. 



649 



Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 
Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
"Where I may oft out- watch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
"What worlds or what vast regions hold 
The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire,, air, flood, or under ground, 
"Whose power hath a true consent 
"With planet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by. 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, 0, sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower ! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
And made hell grant what love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold — 
Of Oamball, and of Algarsife — 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass — 
And of the wondrous horse of brass. 
On which the Tartar king did ride ! 
And, if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung — 
Of turneys and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
"Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, ISfight, oft see me in thy pale 
career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear — 
Not tricked and flounced, as she was wont 
"With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud 
"While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or ushered with a shower still 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 



Ending on the rustling leaves. 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 

And when the sun begins to fling 

His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 

To arched walks of twilight groves. 

And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 

Of pine or monumental oak. 

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 

Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 

There in close covert by some brook, 

Where no profaner eye may look. 

Hide me from day's garish eye. 

While the bee with honied thigh. 

That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring 

With such consort as they keep, 

Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings, in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture displayed. 

Softly on my eyelids laid ; 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or th' unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale. 
And love the high embowed roof. 
With antic pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows, richly dight, 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full voiced quire below. 
In service high, and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heav'n doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew. 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

John Milton, 



650 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



SONG. 

Sweet are the tlioiiglits that savor of con- 
tent — 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumher 
spent — 
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry 
frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
such bliss. 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbors quiet rest, 
The cottage that affords no pride or care, 

The mean that 'grees with country music best, 
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare. 

Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 

A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

KOBEET GeEEN. 



THE EEPLY. 



Since you desire of me to know 
"Who's the wise man, I' 11 tell you who : 
Not he whose rich and fertile mind 
Is by the culture of the arts refined ; 
"Who has the chaos of disordered thought 
By reasons' light to form and method 

brought ; 
Who with a clear and piercing sight 
Can see through niceties as dark as night — 
You err if you think this is he. 
Though seated on the top of the Porphyrian 

tree. 

n. 

Nor is it he to whom kind Heaven 

A secret cabala has given 

T' unriddle the mysterious text 

Of nature, with dark comments more per- 

plext — 
Or to decipher her clean-writ and fair. 
But most confounding, puzzling character — 
That can through all her windings trace 
This slippery ^vanderer, and unveil her face, 



Her inmost mechanism view. 
Anatomize each part, and see her through 
and through. 



Nor he that does the science know 
Our only certainty below — 
That can from problems dark and nice 
Deduce truths worthy of a sacrifice. 
Nor he that can confess the stars, and see 
What 's writ in the black leaves of destiny — 
That knows their laws, and how the sun 
His daily and his annual stage does run, 
As if he did to them dispense 
Their motions and their fate — supreme intel- 
hgence ! 

IV. 

Nor is it he (although he boast 

Of wisdom, and seem wise to most,) 

Yet 't is not he whose busy pate 

Can dive into the deep intrigues of state — 

That can the great leviathan control. 

Manage and rule it, as if he were its soul ; 

The wisest king thus gifted was. 

And yet did not in these true wisdom place. 

Who then is by the wise man meant ? 

He that can want all this, and yet can be 

content. 

John Noeeis. 



A CONTENTED ,MIND. 

I WEIGH not Fortune's frown or smile ; 

I joy not much in earthly joys ; 
I seek not state, I reck not style ; 

I am not fond of Fancy's toys ,: 
I rest so pleased wdth what I have 
I wish no more, no more I crave. 

I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 

I tremble not at noise of war ; 
I swound not at the news of wrack ; 

I shrink not at a blazing star ; 
I fear not loss, I hope not gain ; 
I envy none, I none disdain. 

I see ambition never pleased ; 

I see some Tantals starved in store ; 
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 

I see even Midas gape for more • 



THE 


LYE. ^ 651 


I neither want, nor yet abound — 




Enough's a feast, content is crowned. 


THK LYE. 


I feign not friendship where I hate ; 


GoE, Soule, the bodie's guest, 


I fawn not on the great (in show) ; 


Upon a thanklesse arrant ; 


I prize, I praise a mean estate — 


Feare not to touche the best — 


Neither too lofty nor too low : 


The truth shall be thy warrant ! 


This, this is all my choice, my cheer — 


Goe, since I needs must dye. 


A mind content, a conscience clear. 


And give the world the lye. 


JosmrA Stlvesteb. 






Goe tell the court it glowes 
And shines hke rotten wood ; 




SOl^G. 


Goe teU the church it showes 


What 's good, and doth no good ; 


What pleasure have great princes, 
More dainty to their choice 


If chm-ch and court reply, 
Then give them both the lye. 


Than herdsmen wild, who, careless, 




In quiet life rejoice, 


Tell potentates they live 


And fortune's fate not fearing. 


Acting by others actions — 


Sing sweet in summer morning. 


Not loved unlesse they give. 




Not strong but by their factions ; 


Their dealings, plain and rightful, 


K potentates reply. 


Are void of all deceit ; 


Give potentates the lye. 


They never know how spiteful 




It is to feel and wait 


Tell men of high condition. 


On favorite presumptuous. 


That rule affairs of state, 


Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. 


Their purpose is ambition. 




Their practice only hate ; 


All day their flocks each tendeth ; 


And if they once reply. 


All night they take their rest — 


Then give them all the lye. 


More quiet than who sendeth 




His ship into the East, 


Tell them that brave it most 


Where gold and pearls are plinty, 


They beg for more by spending. 


But getting very dainty. 


Who in their greatest cost 




Seek nothing but commending ; 


For lawyers and their pleading, 


And if they make reply, 


They esteem it not a straw ; 


Spare not to give the lye. 


They think that honest meaning 




Is of itself a law ; 


Tell Zeale it lacks devotion ; 


Where conscience judge th plainly, 


Tell Love it is but lust ; 


They spend no money vainly. 


Tell Time it is but motion ; 




TeU flesh it is but dust ; 


happy who thus liveth. 


And wish them not reply. 


Not caring much for gold, 


For thou must give the lye. 


With clothing which sufficeth 




To keep him from the cold ; 


TeU Age it daily wasteth ; 


Though poor and plain his diet, 


TeU Honour how it alters ; 


Yet merry it is and quiet. 


Tell Beauty how she blasteth ; 


WiLTJAM BtED. 


TeU Favour how she falters ; 



652 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And as they then reply, 
Give each of them the lye. 

TeU Wit how much it wrangles 
In tickle points of nicenesse ; 
Tell Wisedome she entangles 
Herselfe in over wisenesse ; 
And if they do reply, 
Straight give them both the lye. 

Tell Physicke of her boldnesse ; 

Tell Skill it is pretension ; 
Tell Charity of coldnesse ; 
TeU Law it is contention ; 
And as they yield reply, 
So give them still the lye. 

Tell Fortune of her blindnesse ; 

Tell l^ature of decay ; 
Tell Friendship of unkindnesse ; 
Tell Justice of delay ; 
And if they dare reply. 
Then give them all the lye. 

TeU Arts they have no soundnesse. 

But vary by esteeming ; 
TeU Schooles they want profoundnesse. 
And stand too much on seeming ; 
If Arts and Schooles reply. 
Give Arts and Schooles the lye. 

TeU Faith it 's fled the citie ; 

TeU how the country erreth ; 
Tell, Manhood shakes off pitie ; 
TeU, Yertue least preferreth ; 
And if they doe reply, 
Spare not to give the lye. 

So, when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing — 
Although to give the lye 
Deserves no less than stabbing — 
Yet stab at thee who wiU, 
1^0 stab the soule can kill. 

Anonymous. 



MY MENDE TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 

Mt minde to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I finde 
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse 

That God or Nature hath assignde : 
Though much I want, that most would have, 
Yet still my minde forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay — 
I seek no more than may suffice. 

I presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 
Look, what I lack my mind supplies. 

Loe ! thus I triumph like a king. 

Content with that my mind doth bring. 

I see how plentie surfets oft. 

And hastie clymbers soonest fall ; 

I see that such as sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all. 

These get with toUe, and keepe with feare ; 

Such cares my mind could never beare. 

N'o princely pompe nor welthie store, 

ISTo force to win the victorie, 
No wylie wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to winne a lover's eye — 
To none of these I yeeld as thraU ; 
For why, my mind despiseth aU. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

I little have, yet seek no more. 
They are tut poore, though much they have ; 

And I am rich with little store. 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lacke, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's losse, 
I grudge not at another's gaine ; 

No worldly wave my mind can tosse ; 
I brooke that is another's bane. 

I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend ; 

I lothe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthly blisse ; 

I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw ; 
For care, I care not what it is ; 

I feare not fortune's fatal law ; 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beautie bright, or force of love. 



THE WINTER BEING OY-ER. 



653 



I wish but what I have at will ; 

I wander not to seeke for more ; 
I like the plaine, I clime no hill ; * 

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, 
And laugh at them that toile in vaine 
To get what must be lost againe. 

I kisse not where I wish to kill ; 

I feigne not love where most I hate ; 
I breake no sleepe to winne mj will ; 

I wayte not at the mightie's gate. 
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich ; 
I feele no want, nor have too much. 

The court ne cart I like ne loath — 
Extreames are counted worst of all ; 

The golden meane betwixt them both 
Doth surest sit, and feares no fall ; 

This is my choyce ; for why, I finde 

No wealth is like a quiet minde. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

M.J conscience clere my chiefe defence ; 
I never seeke by bribes to please, 

Nor by desert to give offence. 
Thus do I Hve, thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

"William Btbd. 



SONNET. 

If accident, if outward accident, 

Could bend the man to unrestrained woe. 
We then should have an endless argument 

Of all that to our hfe's delight is foe ; 
Then toil upon the surging seas would prove, 

And peril in sequestered ways, an ill 
Which man from off his ground of hope would 
move. 

And, quenching reason, all endurance kill ; 
Then poverty and sickness would conspire 

Against th' abated wisdom of the soul ; 
The loss of friends would poison our desire. 

And change of place our better sense con- 
trol. 
But so we mix our fancy with our woe. 
That abstract and pure grief we lose to know. 

LoED Thitelow. 



THE WINTER BEING OYER. 

The Winter being over. 
In order comes the Spring, 
Which doth green herbs discover. 
And cause the birds to sing. 
The night also expired. 
Then comes the morning bright. 
Which is so much desired 
By all that love the light. 

This may learn 

Them that mourn, 
To put their grief to flight : 
The Spring succeedeth Winter, 
And day must follow night. 

He therefore that sustaineth 
AflQiction or distress 
Which every member paineth, 
And findeth no release — 
Let such therefore despair iiot, 
But on firm hope depend, 
Whose griefs immortal are not. 
And therefore must have end. 

They that faint 

With complaint 
Therefore are to blame ; 
They add to their afflictions, 
And amplify the same. 

For if they could with patience 
Awhile possess the mind. 
By inward consolations 
They might refreshing find. 
To sweeten all their crosses 
That little time they 'dure ; 
So might they gain by losses. 
And sharp would sweet procure. 

But if the mind 

Be inclined 
To unquietness, 
That only may be called ■ 
The worst of all distress. 

He that is melancholy, 
Detesting all delight. 
His wits by sottish folly 
Are ruinated quite. 



654 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Sad discontent and murmurs 


A GOOD that never satisfies the mind. 


To him are incident ; 


A beauty fading like the April showers. 


Were he possessed of honors, 


A sweet with floods of gall that runs com- 


He could not be content. 


bined. 


Sparks of joy 


A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours. 


Fly away ; 


A honor that more fickle is than wind, 


Floods of care arise ; 


A glory at opinion's frown that lowers. 


And all delightful motion 


A treasury which bankrupt time devours. 


In the conception dies. 


A knowledge than grave ignorance more 




blind. 


But those that are contented 


A vain delight our equals to command, 


However things do fall, 
Much anguish is prevented, 


A style of greatness in effect a dream, 

A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 


And they soon freed from all. 


A servile lot, decked with a pompous name : 


They finish all their labors 
With much felicity ; 


Are the strange ends we toil for here below, 
Till wisest death makes us our errors know. 


Their joy in trouble savors 


"William Dbttmmond. 


Of perfect piety. 
Cheerfulness 






Doth express 


A SWEET PASTOR AT,. 


A settled pious mind, 




Which is not prone to grudging, 


Good Muse, rock me asleep 


From murmming refined. 


With some sweet harmony ! 


Airar Collins. 


The weary eye is not to keep 




Thy wary company. 
Sweet love, begone awhile ! 




SOCKETS. 


Thou know'st my heaviness ; 




Beauty is born but to beguile 


Teiumphing chariots, statues, crowns of bays. 


My heart of happiness. 


Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth; 
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious 


See how my little flock, 


lays. 
Which men divine unto the world set forth; 


That loved to feed on high. 


Do headlong tumble down the rock, 


States which -ambitious minds, in blood, do 


And in the valley die. 


raise 
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange ; 


The bushes and the trees, 


Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange, 


That were so fresh and green. 


Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days. 
NTothing is constant but in constant change, 


Do all their dainty color lease, . 
And not a leaf is seen. 


What 's done still is undone, and when undone 




Into some other fashion doth it range ; 


Sweet Philomel, the bird 


Thus goes the floating world beneath the 


That hath the heavenly throat, 
Doth now, alas ! not once afford 


moon : 
Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, 


Recording of a note. 


place. 


The flowers have had a frost ;. 


Eise up, and steps unknown to nature trace. 


Each herb hath lost her savor ; 




And Phillida, the fair, hath lost 




The comfort of her favor. 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 



655 



Now all these careful sights 
So kill me in conceit, 
That how to hope upon delights 
Is but a mere deceit. 

And, therefore, my sweet Muse, 
Thou know'st what help is best ; 
Do now thy heavenly cunning use 
To set my heart at rest. 

And in a dream bewray 
What fate shall be my friend — 
Whether my life shall still decay, 
Or when my sorrow end. 

Nicholas Beeton. 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 

The awful shadow of some unseen power 
Floats, though unseen, among us — visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to 

flower ; 
Like moonbeams, that behind some piny 
mountain shower. 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance, 
Like hues and harmonies of evening. 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread. 
Like memory of music fled. 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate 
With thine own hues all thou dost shine 

upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou 
gone? 
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state. 
This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and deso- 
late? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
river ; 
Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
shown : 



Why fear, and dream, and death, and 

birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom ; why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope. 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given ; 
Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and 
heaven, 
Eemain the records of their vain endeavor — 
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not 
avail to sever 
From all we hear and all we see 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains 
driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument. 
Or moonlight on a midnight sti'eam. 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet di-eam. 

Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds de- 
part 
And come, for some imcertain moments 

lent. 
Man were immortal and omnipotent 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art. 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state with- 
in his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane in lover's eyes ! 
Thou that to human thought art nourishment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came ! 
Depart not, lest the grave should be. 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Through many a listening chamber, cave 

and ruin. 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pur- 
suing 
Hopes of high talk -v^th the departed dead. 
I called on poisonous names with which our 
youth is fed ; 
I was not heard ; I saw them not. 
When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are 
wooing 



656 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


All vital things that wake to bring 


Wouldst behold beauty 


News of birds and blossoming, 


Near thee? all round? 


Sudden thy shadow fell on me — 


Only hath duty 


I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstacy ! 


Such a sight found. 


I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine ; have I not kept the 

vow? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes. 


Eest is not quitting 
The busy career ; 


Eest is the fitting 
Of self to its sphere. 


even now 


r ^' 


I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave. They have in 


'T is the brook's motion, 


visioned bowers 


Clear without strife, 


Of studious zeal or love's delight 


Fleeing to ocean 


Outwatched with me the envious night ; 


After its life. 


They know that never joy illumed my brow 




Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst 


Deeper devotion 


free 


Nowhere hath knelt ; 


This world from its dark slavery — 


Fuller emotion 


That thou, awful loveliness, 


Heart never felt. 


"Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot 




express. 


'T is loving and serving 




. The highest and best ! 


The day becomes more solemn and serene 


'T is onwards ! unswerving — 


"When noon is past ; there is a harmony 


And that is true rest. 


In Autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 


JOHH SlTLLIVAN DwiGHT. 


Which through the summer is not heard nor 




seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 




Thus let thy power, which like the truth 


STANZAS. 


Of nature on my passive youth 




Descended, to my onward life supply 
Its calm — to one who worships thee, 
And every form containing thee — 


Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
Souls to souls can never teach 


"Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 


What unto themselves was taught. 


To fear himself, and love all human kind. 


Peecy Bysshe Shelley. 






We are spirits clad in veils ; 




Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 






To remove the shadowy screen. 


SWEET IS THE PLEASUKE. 




Sweet is the pleasure 


Heart to heart was never known ; 


Itself cannot spoil ! 


Mind with mind did never meet ; 


Is not true leisure 


We are columns left alone 


One with true toil ? 


Of a temple once complete. 


Thou that wouldst taste it, 


Like the stars that gem the sky, 


Still do thy best ; 


Far apart though seeming near, 


Use it, not waste it — 


In our light we scattered lie ; 


Else 't is no rest. 


All is thus but starlight here. 



THE FOUNTAIN. 



657 



What is social company 
But a babbling summer stream ? 
What our wise philosophy 
But the glancing of a dream ? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought, 

Only when we live above 

"WTiat the dim-eyed world hath taught, 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth. 

And by inspiration led 

"Which they never drew from earth, 

"We, hke parted drops of rain. 
Swelling tiU they meet and run, 
ShaU be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 

Cheistophee Peaese Ceanch. 



THE TABLES TUENED. 

Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books, 
Or surely you '11 grow double ; 

Up ! up, my friend ! and clear your looks ; 
Why aU this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 
Through aU the long, green fields has spread. 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife ; 

Come, hear the woodland linnet — 
How sweet his music ! on my fife, 

There 's more of wisdom in it ! 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 

He, too, is no mean preacher ; 
Come forth into the light of things — 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless, — 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
42 



One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which ISTature brings ; 

Our meddling intellect 
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things— 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 

Close up those barren leaves ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 

William Woedswoeth. 



THE rOUNTAI]:^. 



A COlSrVEESATION. 



We talked with open heart, and tongue 

Aff'ectionate and true — 
A pair of friends, though I was young 

And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 

Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke, 

And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, '* let us match 

This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song or catch. 

That suits a summer's noon ; 

" Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing here, beneath the shade. 

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 

And thus the dear old man replied. 
The gray-haired man of glee : 

" No check, no stay, this streamlet fears : 

How merrily it goes ! 
'T wiU murmur on a thousand years. 

And flow as now it flows. 



658 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



" And here, on this delightful day, 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 

Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears, 

My heart is idly stirred ; 
For the same sound is in my ears 

"Which in those days I heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay ; 

And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 

Than what it leaves behind. 

"The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark above the hill, 
Let loose their carols when they please. 

Are quiet when they will. 

" "With Nature never do they wage 

A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 

Is beautiful and free. 

"But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 

And often, glad no more, 
We wear a face of joy, because 

"We have been glad of yore. 



" If there be one who need bemoan 

His kindred laid in earth. 
The household hearts that were his own, 

It is the man of mirth. 

" My days, my friend, are almost gone ; 

My life has been approved, 
And many love me ; but by none 

Am I enough beloved ! " 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
The man who thus complains ! 

I live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains ; 

" And, Matthew, for thy children dead, 

I '11 be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said 

" Alas ! that cavinot be." 



"We rose up from the fountain-side ; 

And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 

And through the wood we went ; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock. 

He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock, 

And the bewildered chimes. 

WiLLIAH WOBDSWOETH. 



THE CEOWDED STREET. 

Let me move slowly through the street. 
Filled with an ever-shifting train, 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 

The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come ! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face — 
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 

Where secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — 
To halls in which the feast is spread — 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair. 

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calrhness here. 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame. 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! 

Go'st thou to build an early name. 
Or early in the task to die ? 

Keen son of trade, with eager brow ! 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, 

Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 



THE SUNKEN CITY. 



Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleam again ? 

Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold dark hours, how slow the light ; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

Each where his tasks or pleasures call, 
They pass, and heed each other not. 

There is who heeds, who holds them all 
In his large love and boundless thought. 

These struggling tides of life, that seem 
In wayward, aimless course to tend, 

Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 

"William Cullek Bbyant. 



GOOD-BYE. 

GooD-BTE, proud world ! I 'm going home ; 
Thou art not my friend, and I 'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 
A river-ark on the ocean brine. 
Long I 've been tossed like the driven foam ; 
But now, proud world ! I 'm going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ; 

To Grandeur with his wise grimace ; 

To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 

To supple Office, low and high ; 

To crowded halls, to court and street ; 

To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 

To those who go and those who come — 

Good-bye, proud world ! I 'm going home. 

I am going to my own hearth-stone. 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; 
Where arches green, the livelong day. 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod — 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 



' 0, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines, 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man. 
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
For what are they all, in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may meet ? 

Ealph Waldo Embeson. 



THE SUNKElf CITY. 

Haek ! the faint bells of the sunken city 
Peal once more their wonted evening- 
chime ; 

From the deep's abysses floats a ditty, 
Wild and wondrous, of the olden time. 

Temples, towers, and domes of many stories 
There lie buried in an ocean-grave— 

Undescried, save when their golden glories 
Gleam, at sunset, through tlie lighted wave. 

And the mariner who hath seen them glisten. 
In whose ears those magic bells do sound, 
Night by night bides there to watch and lis- 
ten. 
Though Death lurks behind each dark rock 
round. 

So the bells of memory's wonder-city 
Peal for me their old melodious chime : 

So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty. 
Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time. 

Domes, and towers, and castles, faiicy-builded. 
There lie lost to daylight's garish beams — 

There lie hidden, till unveiled and gilded. 
Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams ! 

And then hear I music sweet upknelling 
From many a well-known phantom-band, 

And, through tears, can see my natural dwell- 
ing 
Far off in the spirit's luminous land ! 

WiLUELM Mueller (German). 
Translation of James Clakknce Mangan. 



660 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



GUY. 

MoETAL mixed of middle claj, 
Attempered to the night and day, 
Interchangeable with things, 
Needs no amulets nor rings. 
Guy possessed the talisman 
That all things from him began ; 
And as, of old, Poly crates 
Chained the sunshine and the breeze, 
So did Guy betimes discover 
Fortune was his guard and lover — 
In strange junctures felt, with awe, 
His own symmetry with law ; 
So that no mixture could withstand 
The virtue of his lucky hand. 
He gold or jewel could not lose, 
Nor not receive his ample dues. 
In the street, if he turned round. 
His eye the eye 't was seeking found. 
It seemed his genius discreet 
Worked on the maker's own receipt, 
And made each tide and element 
Stewards of stipend and of rent ; 
So that the common waters feU 
As costly wine into his well. 
He had so sped his wise affairs 
That he caught nature in his snares : 
Early or late, the falling rain 
Arrived in time to swell his grain ; 
Stream could not so perversely wind 
But corn of Guy's was there to grind ; 
The siroc found it on its way 
To speed his sails, to dry his hay; 
And the world's sun seemed to rise 
To drudge all day for Guy the wise. 
In his rich nurseries timely skill 
Strong crab with nobler blood did fill ; 
The zephyr in his garden rolled 
From plum-trees vegetable gold ; 
And all the hours of the year 
With their own harvest honored were. 
There was no frost but welcome came, 
Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame. 
Belonged to wind and world the toil 
And venture, and to Guy the oil. 

Kalph Waldo Emeeson. 



TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP PHY- 
SICIAN. 

Go now ! and with some daring drug 
Bait thy disease ; and, whilst they tug. 
Thou, to maintain their precious strife. 
Spend the dear treasures of thy life. 
Go ! take physic — dote upon 
Some big-named composition, 
The oraculous doctor's mystic bills — 
Certain hard words made into pills ; 
And what at last shalt gain by these ? 
Only a costlier disease. 
That which makes us have no need 
Of physic, that 's physic indeed. 
Hark, hither, reader ! wilt thou see 
Nature her own physician be ? 
Wilt see a man aU his own wealth. 
His own music, his own health — 
A man whose sober soul can tell 
How to wear her garments weU — 
Her garments that upon her sit 
As garments should do, close and fit — 
A well-clothed soul that 's not oppressed 
Nor choked with what she should be dressed — 
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, 
Through which all her bright features shine : 
As when a piece of wanton lawn, 
A thin aerial veil, is drawn. 
O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide. 
More sweetly shows the blushing bride — 
A soul whose intellectual beams 
No mists do mask, no lazy streams — 
A happy soul, that all the way 
To heaven hath a summer's day? 
Would'st see a man whose well- warmed blood 
Bathes him in a genuine flood ? — 
A man whose tuned humors be 
A seat of rarest harmony ? 
Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, be- 
guile 
Age ? Would'st see December smile ? 
Would'st see nests of new roses grow 
In a bed of reverend snow ? 
Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering 
Winter's self into a Spring ? — 
In sum, would'st see a man that can 
Live to be old, and still a man ? 
Whose latest and most leaden hours 
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers ; 



ABSTRACT OF 


MELANCHOLY. 661 


And when life's sweet fable ends, 


Doth juice medicinal proceed 


Soul and body part like friends — 


From such a naughty foreign weed? 


ITo quarrels, murmurs, no delay — 


Then what 's the power 


A kiss, a sigh, and so away ? 


Of Jesse's flower ? 


This rare one, reader, would'st thou see ? 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Hark, hither ! and thyself be he. 




ElCHABD CbASHAW. 


The promise, like the pipe, inlays, 




And by the mouth of faith conveys 
What virtue flows 






From Sharon's rose : 


SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED. 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


PAET I. 




This Indian weed, now withered quite, 


In vain the unlighted pipe you blow — 


Though green at noon, cut down at night, 


Your pains in outward means are so, 


Shows thy decay — 


'Till heavenly fire 


All flesh is hay : 


Your heart inspire : 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


The pipe, so lily-like and weak, 


The smoke like burning incense towers; 


Does thus thy mortal state bespeak ; 


So should a praying heart of yours 


Thou art e'en such — 


With ardent cries 


Gone with a touch : 


Surmount the skies : 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 




ANomrMOTJS. 


And when the smoke ascends on high, 
Then thou behold'st the vanity 




* 


Of worldly stuff- 




Gone with a puff : 


ABSTRACT OF MELAl^CHOLY. 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 






When I go musmg all alone. 


And when the pipe grows foul within, 


Thinking of divers things foreknown — 


Think on thy soul defiled with sin ; 
Tor then the fire 


When I build castles in the air, 
Void of sorrow, void of fear, 


It does require : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, 
Methinks the time runs very fleet. 




All my joys to this are folly ; 


And seest the ashes cast away. 


Nought so sweet as melancholy. 


Then to thyself thou mayest say 




That to the dust 


When I go walking all alone. 


Return thou must : 


Recounting what I have ill-done, 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


My thoughts on me then tyrannize ; 




Fear and sorrow me surprise ; 




Whether I tarry stiU or go, 


PAET II. 


Methinks the time moves very slow. 


Was this small plant for thee cut down? 


All my griefs to this are jolly ; 


So was the plant of great renown. 


Nought so sad as melancholy. 


Which Mercy sends 




For nobler ends : 


When to myself I act and smile, 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

• 


With pleasing thoughts the time beguile. 



662 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



By a brook side, or wood so green, 
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, 
A thousand pleasures do me bless. 
And crown my soul with happiness. 

All my joys besides are folly ; 

None so sweet as melancholy. 

When I lie, sit, or walk alone, 

I sigh, I grieve, making great moan ; 

In a dark grove or irksome den, 

"With discontents and furies then, 

A thousand miseries at once 

My heavy heart and soul ensconce. 

All my griefs to this are jolly; 

None so sour as melancholy. 

Methinks I hear, methinks I see, 
Sweet music, wondrous melody ; 
Towns, palaces, and cities fine — 
Here now, then there ; the world is mine ; 
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine ; 
"Whate'er is lovely is divine. 

All other joys to this are folly ; 

None so sweet as melancholy. 

Methinks I hear, methinks I see, 
Ghosts, goblins, fiends : my phantasie 
Presents a thousand ugly shapes — 
Headless bears, black men, and apes ; 
Doleful outcries and fearful sights 
My sad and dismal soul affrights. 

All my griefs to this are jolly; 

None so damned as melancholy. 

EOBEET BlTETON. 



HENCE ALL YOU VAIN DELIGHTS. 

Hence all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 

"Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There 's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see 't, 

But only melancholy ; 

O sweetest melancholy ! 
Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies, 
A look that 's fastened to the ground, 
A tongue chained up without a sound ! 



Fountain heads and pathless groves ; 
Places which pale passion loves ; 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ; 
A midnight bell, a parting groan — 
These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 

valley. 
Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely mel- 
ancholy. 

Bkattmont akd Tmitchee. 



ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 



Come, let us set our careful breasts, 
Like Philomel, against the thorn, 
To aggravate the inward grief 
That makes her accents so forlorn ; 
The world has many cruel points 
Whereby our bosoms have been torn, 
And there are dainty themes of grief, 
In sadness to outlast the morn — 
True honor's dearth, affection's death, 
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn. 
With all the piteous tales that tears 
Have watered since the world was born. 



The world ! — ^it is a wilderness, 
Where tears are hung on every tree ; 
For thus my gloomy phantasy 
Makes all things weep with me. 
Come, let us sit and watch the sky. 
And fancy clouds where no clouds be ; 
Grief is enough to blot the eye. 
And make heaven black with misery. 
Why should birds sing such merry notes. 
Unless they were more blest than we ? 
No sorrow ever chokes their throats — 
Except sweet nightingale ; for she 
Was born to pain our hearts the more. 
With her sad melody. 
Why shines the sun, except that he 
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, 
And pensive shades for melancholy, 
When all the earth is bright beside ? 



ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 



663 



Let clay wear smiles, aiid green grass wave ; 
Mirth shall not win us back again, 
Whilst man is made of his own grave, 
And fairest clouds but gilded rain ! 

I saw mj mother in her shroud ; 

Her cheek was cold and very pale ; 

And ever since I 've looked on all 

As creatures doomed to fail ! 

Why do buds ope, except to die ? 

Aye, let us watch the roses wither. 

And think of our loves' cheeks ; 

And O, how quickly time doth fly 

To bring death's winter hither ! 

Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, 

Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought — 

An age past is but a thought ! 

Aye, let us think of him a while 

That, with a coflBn for a boat. 

Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat ; 

And for our table choose a tomb. 

There 's dark enough in any skull 

To charge with black a raven plume ; 

And for the saddest funeral thoughts 

A winding-sheet hath ample room, 

Where Death, with his keen-pointed style. 

Hath writ the common doom. 

How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, 

And o'er the dead lets fall its dew, 

As if in tears it wept for them. 

The many human families 

That sleep around its stem ! 

How cold the dead have made these 

stones, 
With natural drops kept ever wet ! 
Lo ! here the best, the worst, the world 
Doth now remember or forget 
Are in one common ruin hurled ; 
And love and hate are calmly met — 
•The loveliest eyes that ever shone, 
The fairest hands, and locks of jet. 
Is 't not enough to vex our souls 
And fill our eyes, that we have set 
Our love upon a rose's leaf. 
Our hearts upon a violet? 
Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet ; 
And, sometimes, at their swift decay 
Beforehand we must fret. 
The roses bud and bloom again ; 



But love may haunt the grave of love. 
And watch the mould in vain. 

O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, 
And do not take my tears amiss ; 
For tears must flow to wash away 
A thought that shows so stern as this. 
Forgive,- if somewhile I forget. 
In woe to come, the present bliss. 
As frighted Proserpine let fall 
Her flowers at the sight of Dis, 
Ev'n so the dark and bright will kiss. 
The sunniest things throw sternest shade ; 
And there is even a happiness 
That makes the heart afraid. 
Now let us with a spell invoke 
The full-orbed moon to grieve our eyes ; 
ITot bright, not bright — but, with a cloud 
Lapped all about her, let her rise 
All pale and dim, as if from rest 
The ghost of the late buried sun 
Had crept into the skies. 
The moon ! she is the source of sighs. 
The very face to make us sad, 
If but to think in other times 
The same calm, quiet look she had. 
As if the world held nothing base. 
Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad — 
The same fair light that shone in streams. 
The fairy lamp that charmed the lad ; 
For so it is, with spent delights 
She taunts men's brain's, and makes them 
mad. 



AU things are touched with melancholy, 
Born of the secret soul's mistrust 
To feel her fair ethereal wings 
Weighed down with vile, degraded dust. 
Even the bright extremes of joy 
Bring on conclusions of disgust — 
Like the sweet blossoms of the May, 
Whose fragrance ends in must. 
O give her, then, her tribute just. 
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy ! 
There is no music in the life 
That sounds with idiot laughter solely ; 
There 's not a string attuned to mirth, 
But has its chord in melancholy. 

Thomas Hood. 



664 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



DEJECTIOiq^: AN ODE. 



Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon, 
"With the old moon in her arms; 
And I fear, I fear, my master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 



.Well! if the bard was weather-wise, who 
made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go 
hence 
Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy 

flakes, 
Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and 
rakes 
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, 
Which better far were mute. 
For lo ! the new-moon, winter-bright, 
And overspread with phantom light — 
With swimming phantom light o'erspread, 
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread ! 
[ see the old moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
And O ! that even now the gust were swell- 
ing, 
And the slant night-shower driving loud 
and fast ! 
Those sounds, which oft have raised me whilst 
they awed. 
And sent my soul abroad. 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse 

give- 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move 
and live. 

n. 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear — 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief. 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

O lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 

To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed, 
All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 

Have I been gazing on the western sky. 
And its peculiar tint of yellow green ; 

And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 



And those thin clouds above, in flakes and 

bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars — 
Those stars, that glide behind them or be- 
tween, 
IsTow sparkling, now bedimmed, but always 

seen — 
Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue : 
I see them all so excellently fair — 
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 

m. 

My genial spirits fail ; 

And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my 
breast ? 

It were a vain endeavor. 

Though I should gaze forever 
On that green ligbt that lingers in the west : 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life whose fountains are 
within. 

IV. 

lady ! we receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does Nature live ; 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her 
shroud ! 
And would we aught behold of higher 
worth 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd — 
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the earth ; 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 

V. 

pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be — 
What, and wherein it doth exist — 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was 
given 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour — 
Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and 
shower — 



DEJECTION — AN ODE/ 



665 



Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power 
Which, wedding nature to us, gives in dower 

A new earth and new heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous 
cloud — 
We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms our ear or 
sight — 
All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
AH colors a suffusion from that light. 



There was a time when, though my path was 
rough, 
This joy within me dallied with distress ; 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
Whence fancy made me dreams of happi- 
ness. 

For hope grew round me like the twining 
' vine ; 

And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed 

mine. 
But now aflQictions bow me down to earth, 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; 

But O ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 

My shaping spirit of imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel. 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 
From my own nature all the natural man — 
This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my 
soul. 

VII. 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my 
mind— 
Eeality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind, 
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a 
scream 
Of agony, by torture lengthened out. 
That lute sent forth ! Thou wind, that ravest 
without ! 
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted 
tree. 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 



Or lonely house, long held the witches' 

home, 

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 

Mad lutanist ! who, in this month of showers. 

Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping 

flowers, 
Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry 

song, 
The blossoms, buds, and timer, s leaves 
among ! 
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic s- ■ - ! 
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'T is of the rushing of a host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with smart- 
ing wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder 

with the cold. 
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all 
is over — 
It teUs another tale, with sounds less deep 
and loud ! 
A tale of less affright. 
And tempered with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay : 
'T is of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild — 
NTot far from home, but she hath lost her 

way; 
And now moans low in bitter grief and 

fear — 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make 
her mother hear. 

vni. 
'T is midnight, but smaU thoughts have I of 

sleep ; 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils 

keep! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep, with wings of heal- 
ing! 
And may this storm be but a mountain- 
birth ; 
May all the stars hang bright above her 
dwelling, 
Silent as though they watched the sleeping 
earth ! 
With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes — 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ! 
To her may all things live, from pole to pole- 
Their life the eddying of her living soul! 

O simple spirit, guided from above ! 
Dear lady ! friend devoutest of my choice ! 
Thus may est thou ever, evermore rejoice. 

Samttel Taylor Colekidge. 



SIR MARMADUKE. 

Sir Maemaduke was a hearty knight — 

Good man ! old man ! 
He 's painted standing bolt upright, 

With his hose rolled over his knee ; 
His periwig 's as white as chalk, 
And on his fist he holds a hawk ; 

And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

His dining-room was long and wide — 

Good man ! old man ! 
His spaniels lay by the fireside ; 

And in other parts, d'ye see. 
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; 

And he looked like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

He never turned the poor from the gate — 

Good man ! old man ! 
But was always ready to break the pate 

Of his country's enemy. 
What knight could do a better thing 
Than ser^e the poor, and fight for his king? 

And so may every head 
Of an ancient family. 

Geoegb Colman, " the younger." 



I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

I AM a friar of orders gray, 
And down in the valleys I take my way ; 
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 
Good store of venison fills my scrip ; 
My long bead-roll I merrily chant ; 
Where'er I walk no money I want ; 



And why I 'm so plump the reason I tell — 
Who leads a good life is sure to live w^ell. 

What baron or squire. 

Or knight of the shire, 

Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 

After supper of heaven I dream, 

IBut that is a pullet and clouted cream ; 

Myself, by denial, I mortify — 

With a dainty bit of a warden pie ; 

I 'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin — 

With old sack wine I 'm lined within ; 

A chirping cup is my matin song. 

And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. 

What baron or squire. 

Or knight of the shire. 

Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 
John O'Keefe. 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin. 
That never has known the barber's shear. 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin — 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer — 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window panes — 

Wait till you come to forty year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 

Grizzling hair the brain .doth clear ; 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass — 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare. 

All good fellows whose beards are gray — 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone. 
May pray and whisper and we not list, 
Or look away and never be missed — 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 



OLD. . 66Y 


Gillian 's dead ! God rest her bier — 


But pretty lies loved I 


How I loved her twenty years syne I 


As much as any king — 


Marian's married ; but I sit here, 


When youth was on the wing, 


Alone and merry at forty year, 


And (must it then be told?) when youth had 


Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 


quite gone by. 


"William Makepeace Thackeeat. 






Alas ! and I have not 




The pleasant hour forgot, 




When one pert lady said — 




" 0, Landor I I am quite 


TO PERILLA. 


Bewildered with affright ; 




I see (sit quiet now !) a white hair on your 


Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 


head!" 


Me, day by day, to steal away from thee ? 




Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid 


Another, more benign, 


come, 


Drew out that hair of mine, 


And haste away to mine eternal home ; 


And in her own dark hair 


'TwiU not be long, Perilla, after this 


Pretended she had found 


That I must give thee the supremest kiss. 


That one, and twirled it round. — 


Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring 


Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 


Part of the cream from that religious spring. 


Waltee Savage Landoe. 


With which, Perilla, wash my hands and 




feet; 
That done, then wind me in that very sheet 




* 


Which wrapt thy smooth limbs when thou 




didst implore 


OLD. 


The gods' protection, but the night before ; 


% 


Follow me weeping to my turf, and there 




Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. 


By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 


Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be 


Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; 


Devoted to the memory of me ; 


Oft I marked him sitting there alone. 


Then shall my ghost not walk about, but 


All the landscape like a page perusing ; 


keep 
Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 


Poor, unknown — 


By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 


Eobeet Heeeick. 






Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed 
hat; 
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding ; 




THE OKE GRAY HAIR. 


Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat ; 




Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding — 


The wisest of the wise 


There he sat ! 


Listen to pretty lies, 


Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed 


And love to hear them told ; 


hat. 


Doubt not that Solomon 




Listened to many a one — 


Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 


Borne in his youth, and more when he grew 


No one sympathizing, no one heeding — 


old. 


None to love him for his thin gray hair. 




And the furrows all so mutely pleading 


I never sat among 


Age and care- 


The choir of Wisdom's song, 


Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 



668 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



It was summer, and we went to school — 
Dapper country lads, and little maidens ; 

Taught the motto of the " dunce's stool," 
Its grave import still my fancy ladens — 
"Here's a fool!" 

It was summer, and we went to school. 



When the stranger seemed to mark our play, 
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. 

I remember weU — ^too well, that day ! 
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started. 
Would not stay, 

When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent speU — 
Ah ! to me her name was always heaven ! 

She besought him all his grief to tell, 
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) — 
Isabel ! 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

Angel, said he sadly, I am old — 
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 

Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told — 
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow ; 
Down it rolled ! 

Angel, said he sadly, I am old ! 

I have tottered here to look once more 
On the pleasant scene where I delighted 

In the careless, happy days of yore, 

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core — 

I have tottered here to look once more ! 

All the picture now to me how dear ! 

E'en this gray old rock where I am seated 
Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 

Ah, that such a scene must be completed 
With a tear ! 
All the picture now to me how dear ! 

Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ! 

There 's the very step I so oft mounted ; 
There 's the window creaking in its frame. 

And the notches that I cut and counted 
For the game ; 
Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ! 



In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; 
Long my happy home — ^that humble dwell- 
ing; 
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn — 
There the spring, with limpid nectar swell- 
ing; 

Ah, forlorn ! 
In the cottage, yonder, I was born. 

Those two gate-way sycamores you see 
Then were planted just so far asunder 

That long well-pole from the path to free, 

And the wagon to pass safely under ; 

NTinety-three ! 

Those two gate-way sycamores you see. 

There 's the orchard where we used to climb 
When my mates and I were boys together — 
Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 
Eearing naught but work and rainy wea- 
ther; 

Past its prime ! 
There 's the orchard where we used to climb ! 



There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails. 
Bound the pasture where the flocks were 
grazing. 
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails 
In the crops of buckwheat we were rais- 
ing- 
Traps and trails ; 
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails. 

There's the mill that ground our yellow 
grain — 
Pond, and river, still serenely flowing ; 
Got, there nestling in the shaded lane 
Where the lily of my heart was blowing — 
Mary Jane ! 
There's the mill that ground our yellow 



grain 



There 's the gate on which I used to swing — 
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red 
stable; 
But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
That dear group around my father's table — 
Taken wing I 
There 's the gate on which I used to swing ! 



THE LAST LEAF. ^ 669 


I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 


By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 


Yon green meadow was our place for play- 


Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 


ing; 


Still I marked him sitting there alone. 


That old tree can tell of sweet things said 


All the landscape, like a page, perusing — 


When around it Jane and I were straying — 


Poor, unknown. 


She is dead ! 


By the wayside, on a mossy stone ! 


I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 


Ealph Hott. 


* 


Tracing silently life's changeful story, 




So familiar to my dim old eye, 


THE LAST LEAF. 


Points me to seven, that are now in glory 




There on high — 


I SAW him once before, 


Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 


As he passed by the door ; 




And again 


Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 


The pavement-stones resound 


Guided thither by an angel mother ; 


As he totters o'er the ground 


IS'ow she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 


With his cane. 


Sire and sisters, and my little brother 




Gone to God ! 


They say that in his prime, 


Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 


Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
!N"ot a better man was found 


There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways — 


Bless the holy lesson!— but, ah! never 


By the crier on his round 


Shall I hear again those songs of praise, 


Through the town. 


Those sweet voices — silent now for ever ! 




Peaceful days ! 
There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways. 


But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 




So forlorn ; 


There my Mary blest me with her hand 


And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said 


When our souls drank in the nuptial bless- 


ing, 
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land — 


" They are gone." 


Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; 




Broken band ! 


The mossy marbles rest 


There my Mary blest me with her hand. 


On the lips that he has pressed 




In their bloom ; 




And the names he loved to hear 


I have come to see that grave once more. 




And the sacred place where we delighted. 


Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 


Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, 


Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 




To the core — 


My grandmamma has said — 


I have come to see that grave once more. 


Poor old lady ! she is dead 




Long ago — 


Angel, said he sadly, I am old — 


That he had a Roman nose. 


Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 


And his cheek was like a rose 


Now why I sit here thou hast been told — 


In the snow. 


In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; 




Down it rolled ! 


But now his nose is thin. 


Angel, said he sadly, I am old ! 


And it rests upon his chin 



670 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Like a staff; 


I 'd say we suffer and we strive 


And a crook is in his back, 


Not less nor more as men than boys — 


And a melancholy crack 


With grizzled beards at forty-five, 


In his laugh. 


As erst at twelve in corduroys. 




And if, in time of sacred youth, 


I know it is a sin 


We learned at home to love and pray. 


For me to sit and grin 


Pray Heaven that early love and truth 


At him here, 


May never wholly pass away. 


But the old three-cornered hat, 




And the breeches — and all that, 


And in the world, as in the school, 


Are so queer ! 


I 'd say how fate may change and shift — 




The prize be sometimes with the fool. 


And if I should live to be 


The race not always to the swift. 


The last leaf upon the tree 


The strong may yield, the good may fall. 


In the spring, 


The great man be a vulgar clown, 


Let them smile, as I do now, 


o 07 

The knave be lifted over all, 


At the old forsaken bough 
Where I cling. 


The kind cast pitilessly down. 


Oliver Wendell Holmes. 






Who knows the inscrutable design ? 




Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 






Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 


THE END OF THE PLAY. 


We bow to Heaven that willed it so. 




That darkly rules the fate of all. 


The play is done — ^the curtain drops. 


That sends the respite or the blow. 


Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 


That 's free to give or to recall. 


A moment yet the actor stops, 




And looks around, to say farewell. 


This crowns his feast with wine and wit — 


It is an irksome word and task ; 


Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 


And, when he 's laughed and said his say, 


His betters, see, below him sit. 


He shows, as he removes the mask. 


Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 


A face that 's any thing but gay. 


Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 




To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 


One word, ere yet the evening ends — 


Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel. 


Let 's close it with a parting rhyme ; 


Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 


And pledge a hand to all young friends, 




As fits the merry Christmas time : 




On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 


So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 


That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 


Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed— 


Good night ! — with honest gentle hearts 


Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 


A kindly greeting go alway ! 


And longing passion unfulfilled. 




Amen ! — whatever fate be sent, 


Good night ! — I 'd say the griefs, the joys, 


Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 


Just hinted in this mimic page. 


Although the head with cares be bent. 


The triumphs and defeats of boys. 


And whitened with the winter snow. 


Are but repeated in our age. 




I'd say your woes were not less keen. 


Come wealth or want, come good or ill. 


Your hopes more vain, than those of men — 


Let young and old accept their part, 


Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 


And bow before the awful will. 


At forty -five played o'er again. 


And bear it with an honest heart. 



SONG. 



67 1 



Who misses, or who wins the prize — 
Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 

But if you fail, or if you rise, 
Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days ; 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said. 

And peace on earth to gentle men ! 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth. 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



TIME'S CURE. 

MotTE^, rejoicing heart ! 

The hours are flying ; 
Each one some treasure takes. 
Each one some blossom breaks, 

And leaves it dying ; 
The chill, dark night draws near — 
The sun will soon depart, 

And leave thee sighing ; 
Then mourn, rejoicing heart! 

The hours are flying ! 

Rejoice, O grieving heart ! 

The hours fly fast — 
"With each some sorrow dies, 
With each some shadow flies. 

Until at last 
The red dawn in the east 
Bids weary night depart, 

And pain is past : 
Rejoice then, grieving heart ! 

The hours fly fast ! 

Anonymous. 



A PETITIOlSr TO TIME. 

Touch us gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three — 
(One is lost — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead !) 

Touch us gently. Time ! 

We 've not proud nor soaring wings: 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we, 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Bakey Coenwall. 



SONG. 



Time is a feathered thing. 

And whilst I praise 

The sparklings of thy looks, and call them 

rays. 
Takes wing — 

Leaving behind him, as he flies, 
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes. 

His minutes, whilst they are told. 
Do make us old ; 
And every sand of his fleet glass. 
Increasing age as it doth pass. 
Insensibly sows wrinkles here, 
Where flowers and roses did appear. 

Whilst we do speak, our fire 

Doth into ice expire ; 

Elames turn to frost ; 

And ere we can 

Know how our crow turns swan, 

Or how a silver snow 

Springs there where jet did grow, 

Our fading Spring is in duU Winter lost. 

Anon ymotts. 



672 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


THERE AEE GAINS FOR ALL OUR 


THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 


LOSSES. 






I said to Sorrow's awful storm. 


Theee are gains for all our losses — 


That beat against my breast, 


There are balms for all our pain ; 


Rage on ! — thou may'st destroy this form. 


But when youth, the dream, departs, 


And lay it low at rest ; 


It takes something from our hearts, 


But still the spirit that now brooks 


And it never comes again. 


Thy tempest, raging high. 




Undaunted on its fury looks, 


We are stronger, and are better. 


With steadfast eye. 


Under manhood's sterner reign ; 




Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet. 
And will never come again. 


I said to Penury's meagre train. 

Come on ! your threats I brave ; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain. 




And crush me to the grave ; 




Yet still the spirit that endures 


Something beautiful is vanished. 


Shall mock your force the while, 


. And we sigh for it in vain ; 


And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 


We behold it everywhere, 


With bitter smile. 


On the earth, and in the air, 




But it never comes again. 


I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 


ElOHAKD HeKEY StODDAED. 


Pass on ! I heed you not ; 




Ye may pursue me till my form 




And being are forgot ; 




Yet still the spirit which you see 


SONNET, 


Undaunted by your w iles. 
Draws from its own nobility 




Its high-born smiles. 


Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 




Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 


I said to Friendship's menaced blow. 


Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 


^ 7 

Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; 


In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 


Thou canst but add one bitter woe 


Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in 


To those already there ; 


sowing — 


Yet still the spirit that sustains 


But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the 


This last severe distress, 


wheat ; 


ShaU smile upon its keenest pains, 


Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in 


And scorn redress. 


blowing — 




And still, still, their dying breath is sweet ; 


I said to Death's uplifted dart. 


And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft 


Aim sure ! 0, why delay ? 


us 


Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 


Of that which made our childhood sweeter 


A weak, reluctant prey ; 


still ; 


For still the spirit, firm and free, 


And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 


Unruffled by this last dismay, 


A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 


Wrapt in its own eternity, 


And sweet are all things, when we learn to 


Shall pass away. 


prize them 


Lavinia Btoddaed. 


Not for their sake, but His who grants them 
or denies them ! 






AtTBEEY DE VEEE. 





MUTABILITY. 



6*73 



NO MORE. 

My wind has turned to bitter north, 

That was so soft a south before ; 
My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 

With foggy gloom is clouded o'er ; 
My gay green leaves are yellow-black 

Upon the dank autumnal floor ; 
Tor love, departed once, comes back 

No more again, no more. 

A roofless ruin lies my home, 

For winds to blow and rains to pour ; 
One frosty night befell — and lo ! 

I find my summer days are o'er. 
The heart bereaved, of why and how 

Unknowing, knows that yet before 
It had what e'en to memory now 

Returns no more, no more. 

Akthtjr Hugh Clottgh. 



QUA OURSUM YENTUS. 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied ; 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so—but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew, to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 

At dead of night their sails were filled. 
And onward each rejoicing steered ; 

Ah ! neither blamed, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 

Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too ! 
Through winds and tides one compass 
guides — 
To that and your own selves be true. 
43 



But blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er that earliest parting past. 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought — 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

O bounding breeze, rushing seas. 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Akthuk Hugh Clottgh. 



STANZAS. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky. 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
Its hold is frail — ^its date is brief. 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shaU fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat. 

All trace will vanish from the sand; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race. 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea— « 
But none, alas ! shaU mourn for me ! 

ElCHABD HeNKY WiLDB. 



MUTABILITY. 

The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay 

Tempts, and then flies ; 
What is this world's dehght? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 



674 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 


Virtue, how frail it is ! 




Friendship too rare ! 


ODE TO DUTY. 


Love, how it sells poor bliss 




For proud despair ! 


Steen daughter of the voice of God! 


But we, though soon they fall. 


Duty ! if that name thou love 


Survive their joy, and all 


Who art a light to guide, a rod 


"Which ours we call. 


To check the erring, and reprove — 




Thou, who art victory and law 


Whilst skies are blue and bright, 


When empty terrors overawe ; 


Whilst flowers are gay. 


From vain temptations dost set free, 


Whilst eyes that change ere night 


And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 


Make glad the day. 


manity ! 


Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 




Dream thou ! and from thy sleep 


There are who ask not if thine eye 


Then wake to weep. 


Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 


Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 


Where no misgiving is, rely 




Upon the genial sense of youth : 




Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot, 
Who do thy work, and know it not ; 




SONG. 


Long may the kindly impulse last! 


But thou, if they should totter, teach them 




to stand fast ! 


SAT not that my heart is cold 




To aught that once could warm it — 




That Nature's form, so dear of old, 


Serene will be our days and bright, 


No more has power to charm it; 


And happy will our nature be, 


Or that the ungenerous world can chill 


When love is an unerring light, 


One glow of fond emotion 


And joy its own security. 


For those who made it dearer still, 


And they a blissful course may hold 


And shared my wild devotion. 


Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 




Live in the spirit of this creed ; 


Still oft those solemn scenes I view 


Yet find that other strength, according to 
their need. 


In rapt and dreamy sadness — 


Oft look on those who loved them too, 




With fancy's idle gladness ; 


I, loving freedom, and untried. 


Again I longed to view the light 


No sport of every random gust. 


In Nature's features glowing. 


Yet being to myself a guide, 


Again to tread the mountain's height, 


Too blindly have reposed my trust; 


And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 


And oft, when in my heart was heard 




Thy timely mandate, I deferred 


Stern Duty rose, and, frowning, flung 
His leaden chain around me ; 


The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if I may. 


With iron look and suUen tongue 


He muttered as he bound me. 




"The mountain breeze, the boundless 


Through no disturbance of my soul, 


heaven, 


Or strong compunction in me wrought. 


Unfit for toil the creature ; 


I supplicate for thy control. 


These for the free alone are given — 


But in the quietness of thought; 


But what have slaves with Nature ? " 


Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 


Chakles Wolfk 


I feel the weight of chance desires. 



WHY THUS LONGING. 



676 



My hopes no more must change their 

name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nov know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face ; 
Flowei-s laugh before thee on their beds, 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through, 
thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power ! 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy bondman let 
me live ! 

"William Wokdswoeth. 



HUTdiANT FEAILTY. 

Weak and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day. 
Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 

The bow well bent, and smart the sprint 

Vice»seems already slain; 
But Passion rudely snaps the string. 

And it revives again. 



Some foe to his upright intent 

Finds out his weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent, 

But Pleasure wins his heart. 

'T is here the folly of the wise 
Through all his art we view ; 

And while his tongue the charge denies, 
His conscience owns it true. 



Bound on a voyage of awful length 

And dangers little known, 
A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

But oars alone can ne'er prevail 

To reach the distant coast ; 
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, 

Or all the toil is lost. 

William Cowpkb. 



WHY THUS LONGIN"G? 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing. 
For the far-off, unattained and dim. 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
AU thy restless yearnings it would still ; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to 
fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of hght and joy canst throw — 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and woe ; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — 
N'o fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, 
IsTot by works that give thee world-renown, 

ISTot by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
Canst thou win and wear the immortal 
crown. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 
Every day a rich reward will give ; 

Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 
And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Harriet Winslow. 



676 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



LOSSES. 

Upon the white sea-sand 

There sat a pilgrim band, 
Telling the losses that their lives had known ; 

While evening waned away 

From breezy cliff" and bay, 
And the strong tides went out with weary 
moan. 

One spake, with quivering lip. 

Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone 
down; 

But one had wilder woe — • 

For a fair face, long ago 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

With a most loving ruth, 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; 

And one upon the West 

Turned an eye that would not rest, 
For far-off" hills whereon its joy had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold. 

Some of proud honors told. 
Some spake of friends that were their trust 
no more ; 

And one of a green grave 

Beside a foreign wave. 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done, 

There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 

" Sad losses have ye met. 

But mine is heavier yet ; 
For a believing heart hath gone from me." 

"Alas!" these pilgrims said, 

" For the living and the dead — 
For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 

For the wrecks of land and sea ! 

But, however it came to thee. 

Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest 

loss." 

Feances Beown. 



THE GOOD GREAT MAK 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and 
pains ! 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he merits. 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 

For shame, my friend! renounce this idle 

strain ! 
What wouldst thou have a good great man 

obtain ? 
Wealth, title, dignify, a golden chain. 
Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? 
Goodness and greatness are not means, but 

ends. 
Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 
The good great man ? Three treasures — ^love, 

and light, 
And calm thoughts, equable as infant's 

breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or 

night^ 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

Samtjel Tatloe Coleeidge. 



SONNETS. 

OlSr HIS BEESTG AEEIVED TO THE AGE OF 
TWENTY-THEEE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 

youth, 
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth 

year! 
My hasting days fly on with full career. 
But my late spring no bud or blossom 

showeth. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 

truth, 
That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 
And inward ripeness doth much less appear 
That some more timely-happy spirits in- 

du'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, however mean or high, 



KOBIN HOOD. 



611 



Toward which Time leads me, and the will 
of Heaven : 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Task-master's eje. 



ON THE LATE MASSACEE m PIEMONT. 

Avenge, Lord, thy slaughtered saints, 

whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains 

cold I 
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of 

old, 
"When all our fathers worshipped stocks 

and stones, 
Forget not ! in thy book record their groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 

fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that 

rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 

moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and 

ashes sow 
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth 

sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these may 

grow 
A hundred fold, who, having learned thy 

way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and 

wide. 
And that one talent which is death to 

hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul 
more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide — 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light de- 
nied?" 
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent 



That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not 

need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who 

best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; 

his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without 

rest; 

They also serve who only stand and i 

wait." 

John Milton. 



EOBm HOOD. 

No ! those days are gone away. 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden paU 
Of the leaves of many years ; 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces. 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No ! the bugle sounds no more. 
And the twanging bow no more, ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill. 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight amazed to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 
Or the seven stars, to light you. 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Eobin bold — 
Never one, of all the clan. 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale, 
Messenger for spicy ale. 



678 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Gone the merry morris din ; 
Gone the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone the tough-belted outlaw, 
Idling in the "greene shawe" — 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Eobin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave, 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze ; 
He would swear — for all his oaks. 
Fallen beneath the dock-yard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
Can 't be got without hard money ! 

So it is ! yet let us sing 
Honor to the old bow-string ! 
Honor to the bugle horn ! 
Honor to the woods unshorn ! 
Honor to the Lincoln green ! 
Honor to the archer keen! 
Honor to tight Little John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 
Honor to bold Eobin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honor to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 
Though their days have hurried by, 
Let us' two a burden try. 

John Keats. 



0! THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD! 

! THE pleasant days of old, which so often 

people praise ! 
True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace 

our modern days : 
Bare floors were strewed with rushes — the 

walls let in the cold ; 
! how they must have shivered in those 

pleasant days of old ! 

O ! those ancient lords of old, how magnifi- 
cent they were ! 

They threw down and imprisoned kings — to 
thwart them who might dare ? 



They ruled their serfs right sternly; they 
took from Jews their gold — 

Above both Isiir and equity were those great 
lords of old ! 

! the gallant knights of old, for their valor 

so renowned ! 
With sword and lance, and armor strong, they 

scoured the country round ; 
And whenever aught to tempt them they met 

by wood or wold. 
By right of sword they seized the prize — 

those gallant knights of old ! 

! the gentle dames of old ! who, quite free 

from fear or pain. 
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see 

their champions slain ; 
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which 

made them strong and bold — 
O ! more like men than women were those 

gentle dames of old ! 

! those mighty towers of old ! with their 
turrets, moat and keep. 

Their battlements and bastions, their dun- 
geons dark and deep. 

Full many a baron held his court within the 
castle hold ; 

And many a captive languished there, in 
those strong towers of old. 

O ! the troubadours of old ! with their gentle 

minstrelsie 
Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whichever 

their lot might be— ^ 
For years they served their ladye-love ere 

they their passion told — 
! wondrous patience must have had those 

troubadours of old ! 

0! those blessed times of old! with their 

chivalry and state ; 
I love to read their chronicles, which such 

brave deeds relate ; 
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear 

their legends told — 
But, Heaven be thanked ! I live not in those 

blessed times of old ! 

Feances Bbown. 



THE WHITE ISLAND. ^ 679 




There followed close a hideous throng 


THF. POOR MAN'S SOl^G. 


Of pert and pensioned things— 




Muck- worms, for whom our sweat and blood 


OHAFNT FIEST. 


Must furnish gilded wings. 


I 'll sing a song, and sucli a song 




As men will weep to hear — 


I wiU not tell you what I thought, 


A sorrowing song, of right and wrong- 


N"or for my burning looks 


So, brethren, lend an ear ! 


Find words — but they were bitterer far 




Than aught that 's writ in books. 


God said to man : " This pleasant land, 




I make it wholly thine ; " 


I '11 set my right foot to a stone, 


I look, and say — on this sad day 


And 'gainst a rock my back — 


There 's not one furrow mine. 


Stretch thus my arm, and sternly say. 




" Give me my birthright back ! " 


God said to man: "Increase, enjoy, 


Anonymous. 


Build, till, and sow your seed ! " 




But through the land the Lord gave me 


m 


My children beg their bread. 






THE WHITE ISLAND; 


The North belongs unto the Crown, 




The South to the divine ; 


OE, PLACE OF THE BLEST. 


And East and West Wealth holds her hands, 


In this world, the Isle of Dreams, 


And says "the rest is mine." 


While we sit by sorrow's streams. 




Tears and terrors are our themes. 


God said to man : " All winged fowl, 


Reciting ; 


The finned fish of the flood, 


But when once from hence we flie. 


The heathcock on his desert hills, 


More and more approaching nigh 


The wild deer of the wood — 


Unto young eternitie. 




Uniting 


"Take them and live!" — The strong man 


In that whiter Island, where 


came, 


Things are evermore sincere — 


As came the fiend of yore 


Candor here and lustre there 


To Paradise — put forth his hand — 


Delighting. 


And they are mine no more. 


There no monstrous fancies shall 




Out of heU an horror call, 


I saw the rulers of the land. 


To create, or cause at all. 


In chariots bright with gold. 


Affrighting ; 


Roll on — I gazed, my babes and I, 


There in calm and cooling sleep 


In hunger and in cold. 


We our eyes shall never steep. 




But eternal watch shall keep, 


I saw a prelate, sleek and proud, 


Attending 


Drawn by four chargers, pass ; 


Pleasures, such as shall pursue 


How much he seemed like Jesus meek 


Me immortalized, and you— 


When he rode on an ass ! 


And fresh joys, as never to 




Have ending. 


A trinket of a lord swept by. 


Egbert Heeeick. 


With all his rich array. 
And waved me off, my babes and I, 




• 


As things of coarser clay. 


• 



680 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



THE HAPPY VALLEY. 

I. 

It was a valley filled with sweetest sounds ; 
A languid music haunted every where — 
Like that with which a summer eve abounds, 
From rustling corn, and song-birds calling 
clear 
Down sloping uplands, which some wood sur- 
rounds, 
With tinkling rills just heard, but not too 
near; 
And low of cattle on the distant plain, 
And peal of far-off bells — now caught, then 
lost again. 

n. ^ 

It seemed like Eden's angel-peopled vale. 
So bright the sky, so soft the streams did 
flow; 
Such tones came riding on the musk- winged 
gale 
The very air seemed sleepily to blow ; 
And choicest flowers enamelled every dale. 
Flushed with the richest sunlight's rosy 
glow: 
It was a valley drowsy with delight — 
Such fragrance floated round, such beauty 
dimmed the sight. 

HI. 

The golden-belted bees hummed in the air ; 

The tall silk grasses bent and waved along ; 
The trees slept in the steeping sunbeam's 



The dreamy river chimed its undersong, 
And took its own free course without a care ; 
Amid the boughs did lute-tongued song- 
sters throng. 
And the green valley throbbed beneath their 

lays, 
"While echo echo chased through many a 
leafy maze. 

IV. 

And shapes were there, like spirits of the 
flowers, 
Sent down to see the summer beauties 
dress. 



And feed their fragrant mouths with silver 
showers ; 
Their eyes peeped out from many a green 
recess, 

And their fair forms made light the thick-set 
bowers ; 
The very flowers seemed eager to caress 

Such living sisters ; and the boughs, long- 
leaved, 

Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed 
bosoms heaved. 

V. 

One through her long loose hair was backward 

peeping, 
Or throwing, with raised arm, the locks 
aside ; 
Another high a pile of flowers was heaping. 
Or looking love-askance, and, when de- 
scried, 
Her coy glance on the bedded greensward 
keeping ; 
She pulled the flowers to pieces as she 
sighed — 
Then blushed, like timid daybreak, when the 

dawn 
Looks crimson on the night, and then again 's 
withdrawn. 

VI. 

One, with her warm and milk-white arms 
outspread, 
On tip-toe tripped along a sun-lit glade — 
Half turned the matchless sculpture of her 
head. 
And half shook down her silken circling 
braid. 
She seemed to float on air, so light she sped ; 
Her back-blown scarf an arched rainbow 
made; 
She skimmed the wavy flowers, as she passed 

by, 
With fair and printless feet, like clouds along 
the sky. 



One sat alone within a shady nook. 
With wild-wood songs the lazy hours be- 
guiling ; 
Or looking at her shadow in the brook. 



AKRANMORE. - 681 


Trying to frown — then at the effort smil- 


Others went trooping through the wooded 


ing; 


alleys, 


Her laughing eyes mocked every serious look ; 


Their kirtles glancing white, like streams in 


'T was as if Love stood at himself reviling. 


sunny valleys. 


She threw in flowers, and watched them float 


xr. 


away; 
Then at her beauty looked, then sang a 


They were such forms as, imaged in the 


sweeter lay. 


night. 




Sail in our dreams across the heaven's steep 




blue. 


vin. 


When the closed lid sees visions streaming 


Others on beds of roses lay reclined, 


bright. 


The regal flowers athwart their full lips 


Too beautiful to meet the naked view — 


thrown, 


Like faces formed in clouds of silver light. 


And in one fragrance both their sweets com- 


Women they were ! such as the angels 


bined, 


knew — 


As if they on the self-same stem had 


Such as the mammoth looked on ere he fled. 


grown — 


Scared by the lovers' wings that streamed in 


So close were rose and lip together twined, 


sunset red. 


A double flower that from one bud had 


Thomas Millee. 


blown ; 
Till none could tell, so sweetly were they 






blended. 




"Where swelled the curving lip, or where the 


AKRANMOEE. 


rose-bloom ended. 






! Aeeanmoee, loved Arranmore, 


-rv- 


How oft I dream of thee! 


IX. 


And of those days when by thy shore 


One, half asleep, crushing the twined flowers, 


I wandered young and free. 


Upon a velvet slope like Dian lay — 


Full many a path I 've tried since then. 


Still as a lark that 'mid the daisies cowers ; 


Through pleasure's flowery maze, 


Her lo»ped-up tunic, tossed in disarray, 


But ne'er could find the bliss again 


Showed rounded limbs too fair for earthly 


I felt in those sweet days. 


bowers ; 




They looked like roses on a cloudy day. 


How blithe upon the breezy cliffs 


The warm white dulled amid the colder 


At sunny morn I 've stood. 


green — 


With heart as bounding as the skiffs 


The flowers too rough a couch that lovely 


That danced along the flood ! 


shape to screen. 


Or when the western wave grew bright 




With daylight's parting wing, 


X. 


Have sought that Eden in its light 


Some lay like Thetis' nymphs along the 


Which dreaming poets sing — 


shore. 


That Eden where th' immortal brave 


With ocean-pearl combing their golden 


Dwell in a land serene — 


locks. 


Whose bowers beyond the shining wave. 


And singing to the waves for evermore — 


At sunset, oft are seen ; 


Sinking, like flowers at eve, beside the 


Ah, dream, too full of saddening truth ! 


rocks. 


Those mansions o'er the main 


If but a sound above the muffled roar 


Are like the hopes I built in youth — 


Of the low waves was heard. In little 


As sunny and as vain ! 


flocks 


Thomas Moore, 



682 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




I have loved with right good wiU, 


SUNKISE COMES TO-MORROW. 


Mourned my hopes departed. 




Dreamed my golden dream — and still 




Am not broken-hearted. 


True it is that clouds and mist 




Blot the clear, blue weather ; 




True that lips that once have kissed 


Problems are there hard to solve, 


Come no more together. 


And the weak may try them — 




May review them and revolve, 


True that when we would do good 


While the strong pass by them. 


Evil often follows ; 




True that green leaves quit the wood, 


Sages prove that God is not ; 


Summers lose their swallows. 


But I still adore him, 




See the shadow in each spot 




That he casts before him. 


True that we must live alone, 




Dwell with pale dejections ; 


What if cherished creeds must fade, 


True that we must often moan 


Faith will never leave us ; 


Over crushed affections. 


God preserves what God has made, 




Nor can Truth deceive us. 


True that man his queen awaits^ 




True that, sad and lonely. 


Let in light, the holy light ! 


Woman through her prison-gates 


Brothers, fear it never ; 


Sees her tyrant only. 


Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right : 




Let in light for ever ! 


True the rich despise the poor, 




And the poor desire 


Let in light ! When this shall be 


Food still from the rich man's door, 


Safe and pleasant duty. 


Fuel from his fire. 


Men in common things shall see 




Goodness, truth, and beauty ; 


True that, in this age of ours. 
There are none to guide us — 


And, as noble Plato sings — 


Gone the grand primeval powers ! 
Selfish aims divide us : 


Hear it, lords and ladies ! — 
We shall love and praise the things 




That are down in Hades, 


True the plaint. But, if more true, 


Glad am I, and glad will be ; 


I would not deplore it ; 


For my heart rejoices 


If an Eden fade from view, 


When sweet looks and lips I see, 


Time may yet restore it. 


When I hear sweet voices. 


Evil comes and evil goes. 


I will hope, and work, and love, 


But it moves me never ; 


Singing to the hours. 


For the good, the good, it grows. 


While the stars are bright above. 


Buds and blossoms ever. 


And below, the flowers — 


Winter still succeeds to Spring, 


Apple-blossoms on the trees. 


But fresh Springs are coming ; 


Gold-cups in the meadows, 


Other birds are on the wing. 


Branches waving in the breeze. 


Other bees are humming. 


On the grass their shadows — 

1 



HONEST POVERTY. , 683 


Blackbirds whistling in the wood, 




Cuckoos shouting o'er us, 


HONEST POVERTY. 


Clouds, with white or crimson hood. 




Pacing right before us: 


Is there for honest poverty 




Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? 


"Who, in such a world as this, 


The coward-slave, we pass him by ; 


Could not heal his sorrow ? 


We dare be poor for a' that. 


Welcome this sweet sunset bliss — • 


For a' that, and a' that, 


Sunrise comes to morrow. 


Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 


Anonymous. 


The rank is but the guinea's stamp — 




The man's the gowd for a' that. 
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,. 




"CONTEMPLATE ALL THIS WOKE." 


Wear hodden grey, and a' that; 




Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine — 


Contemplate all this work of Time, 


A man 's a man for a' that. 


The giant laboring in his youth ; 


For a' that, and a' that, 


Nor dream of human love and truth 


Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 


As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 


The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 




Is king o' men for a' that. 


But trust that those we call the dead 




Are breathers of an ampler day 


You see yon birkie ca 'd a lord. 


For ever nobler ends. They say 


Wha struts, and stares, and a' that — 


The solid earth whereon we tread 


Tho' hundreds worship at his word. 




He 's but a coof for a' that ; 


In tracts of fluent heat began. 


For a' that, and a' that. 


And grew to seeming random forms. 


His riband, star, and a' that ; 


The seeming prey of cyclic storms. 


The man of independent mind. 


Till at the last arose the man — 


He looks and laughs at a' that. 


Who throve and branched from clime to clime. 


A prince can mak a belted knight, 


The herald of a higher race, 


A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 


And of himself in higher place, 


But an honest man's aboon his might — 


If so he types this work of time 


Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 


Within himself, from more to more ; 

And crowned with attributes of woe 


Their dignities, and a' that ; 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 


Like glories, move his course, and show 




That life is not an idle ore. 






Then let us pray that come it may, 


But iron dug from central gloom, 


As come it will for a' that. 


And heated hot with burning fears. 


That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 


And dipped in baths of hissing tears. 


May bear the gree, and a' that. 


And battered with the shocks of doom 


For a' that, and a' that, 




It 's coming yet, for a' that — 


To shape and use. Arise and fly 


When man to man, the warld o'er. 


The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ! 


Shall brothers be for a' that. 


Move upward, working out the beast. 


KOBEET BtTENS. 


And let the ape and tiger die ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 







684 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




There 's a good time coming, boys, 


THE GOOD TIME COMING. 


A good time coming : 




Little children shall not toil 


There 's a good time coming, boys, 


Under, or above, the soil 


A good time coming : 


In the good time coming ; 


We may not live to see the day, 


But shall play in healthful fields 


But earth shall glisten in the ray 


Tin limbs and mind grow stronger ; 


Of the good time coming. 


And every one shall read and write ; — 


Cannon balls may aid the truth. 


Wait a little longer. 


But thought 's a weapon stronger ; 




We '11 win our battle by its aid ; — 


There 's a good time coming, boys, 


Wait a little longer. 


A good time coming : 


• 


The people shall be temperate, 


There 's a good time coming, boys. 


And shall love instead of hate. 


A good time coming : 


In the good time coming. 


The pen shall supersede the sword ; 


They shall use, and not abuse, 


And Eight, not Might, shall be the lord 


And make all virtue stronger. 


In the good time coming. 


The reformation has begun ; — 


Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 


Wait a little longer. 


And be acknowledged stronger ; 




The proper impulse has been given ; — 


There 's a good time coming, boySj 


Wait a little longer. 


A good time coming : 




Let us aid it all we can. 


There 's a good time coming, boys, 


Every woman, every man, 


A good time coming : 


The good time coming. 


War in all men 's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity 


Smallest helps, if rightly given. 
Make the impulse stronger ; 


In the good time coming. 


'T wiU be strong enough one day ; — 


Nations shall not quarrel then, 


Wait a little longer. 


To prove which is the stronger ; 


Chakles Mackay. 


Nor slaughter men for glorv 's sake ; — 




Wait a little longer. 




There 's a good time coming, boys. 


IS IT COME? 


A good time coming : 




Hateful rivalries of creed 

Shall not make their martyrs bleed 


Is it come? they said, on the banks of the 
Nile, 
Who looked for the world 's long-promised 
day. 
And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil, 

With the desert's sand and the granite gray. 
From the pyramid, temple, and treasured 


In the good time coming. 
Eeligion shall be shorn of pride. 


And flourish all the stronger ; 
And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 
Wait a little longer. 


There 's a good time coming, boys, 


dead. 


A good time coming : 


We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan ; 


And a poor man 's family 


They tell us of the tyrant's dread- 


Shall not be his misery 


Yet there was hope when that day begun. 


In the good time coming. 




Every child shall be a help 


The Chaldee came, with his starry lore. 


To make his right arm stronger ; 


And built up Babylon's crown and creed; 


The happier he the more he has ; — 


And bricks were stamped on the Tigris shore 


Wait a little longer. 


With signs which our sages scarce can read. 



IF THAT WERE TRUE 



685 



From Ninus' Temple, and Nimrod's Tower, 
The rule of the old East's empire spread 

Unreasoning faith and unquestioned power — 
But still, Is it come ? the watcher said. 

The light of the Persian's worshipped flame, 

The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; 
And once, on the West a sunrise came, 

When Greece to her Freedom's trust was 
true; 
With dreams to the utmost ages dear. 

With human gods, and with god-like men, 
No marvel the far-off day seemed near. 

To eyes that looked through her laurels 
then. 

The Komans conquered, and revelled too. 

Till honor, and faith, and power, were 
gone; 
And deeper old Europe's darkness grew, 

As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 
The gown was learning, the sword was 
law; ' 

The people served in the oxen's stead ; 
But ever some gleam the watcher saw. 

And evermore. Is it come ? they said. 

Poet and seer that question caught. 

Above the din of life's fears and frets ; 
It marched with letters, it toiled with thought. 

Through schools and creeds which the 
earth forgets. 
And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive. 

And traders barter our world away — 
Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave, 

Aod still, at times. Is it come? they say. 

The days of the nations bear no trace 

Of all the sunshine so far foretold ; 
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place — 

The age is weary with work and gold, 
And high hopes wither, and memories wane ; 

On hearths and altars the fires are dead ; 
But that brave faith hath not Hved in vain — 

And this is all that our watcher said. 

Fbances Bbown. 



IF THAT WERE TRUE! 

'T IS long ago, — we have toiled and traded. 
Have lost and fretted, have gained and grieved, 
Since last the light of that fond faith faded ; 
But, friends — in its day — what we believed ! 
The poets' dreams and the peasants' stories — 
O, never will time that trust renew ! 
Yet they were old on the earth before us. 
And lovely tales, — had they been true ! 

Some spake of homes in the greenwood hid- 
den. 
Where age was fearless and youth was free — 
Where none at life's board seemed guests 

unbidden, 
But men had years like the forest tree : 
Goodly and fair and full of summer. 
As lives went by when the world was new, 
Ere ever the angel steps passed from her, — 
O, dreamers and bards, if that were true ! 

Some told us of a stainless standard — 
Of hearts that only in death grew cold. 
Whose march was ever in freedom's van- 
guard. 
And not to be stayed by steel or gold. 
The world to their very graves was debtor — 
The tears of her love fell there like dew ; 
But there had been neither slave nor fetter 
This day in her realms, had that been true ! 

Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer. 
They told that life was an honest game, 
Where fortune favored the fairest player, 
And only the false found loss and blame — 
That men were honored for gifts and graces, 
And not for the prizes folly drew ; 
But there would be many a change of places, 
In hovel and hall, if that were true ! 

Some said to our silent souls, What fear ye ? 
And talked of a love not based on clay — 
Of faith that would neither wane nor weary. 
With all the dust of the pilgrim's day ; 
They said that Fortune and Time were chang- 
ers. 
But not by their tides such friendship grew ; 
O, we had never been trustless strangers 
Among our people, if that were true ! 



686 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


And yet siDce the fairy time hath perished, 


How long ere shaU shine. 


With all its freshness, from hills and hearts, 


In this glimmer of things, 


The last of its love, so vainly cherished, 


The Light of which prophet 


Is not for these days of schools and marts. 


In prophecy sings? 


Up, up ! for the heavens still circle o'er us ; 


And the gates of that city 


There 's wealth to win and there 's work to 


Be open, whose sun 


do. 


No more to the west 


There 's a sky ahove, and a grave before us — 


Its circuit shall run ! 


And, brothers, beyond them all is true ! 


Jones Veey. 


Feances Beown. 

• 


BE PATIENT. 


1 


THE WOELD. 






Be patient! 0, be patient! Put your ear 


'T IS all a great show. 


against the earth ; 


The world that we 're in — 


Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the 


None can tell when 't was finished, 


seed has births- 


If one saw it begin ; 


How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its 


Men wander and gaze through 


little way. 


Its courts and its halls, 


Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and 


Like children whose love is 


the blade stands up in the day. 


The picture-hung walls. 






Be patient! 0, be patient! The germs of 


There are flowers in the meadow, 


mighty thought 


There are clouds in the sky — 


Must have their silent undergrowth, must 


• Songs pour from the woodland, 


underground be wrought ; 


The waters glide by ; 


But as sure as there 's a power that makes 


Too many, too many 


the grass appear. 


For eye or for ear. 


Our land shaU be green with liberty, the 


The sights that we see, 


blade-time shall be here. 


And the sounds that we hear. 






Be patient ! 0, be patient ! — go and watch 


A weight as of slumber 


the wheat-ears grow — 


Comes down on the mind ; 


So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change 


So swift is life's train 


nor throe — 


To its objects we 're blind ; 


Day after day, day after day, till the ear is 


I myself am but one 


fully grown, 


In the fleet-gliding show — 


And then again day after day, till the ripened 


Like others I walk. 


field is brown. 


But know not where I go. 






Be patient ! 0, be patient ! — though yet our 


One saint to another 


hopes are green. 


I heard say " How long ? " 


The harvest-fields of freedom shall be 


I listened, but nought more 


crowned with sunny sheen. 


I heard of his song ; 


Be ripening! be ripening! — mature your si- 


The shadows are walking 


lent way. 


Through city and plain, — 


Till the whole broad land is tongued with 


How long shall the night 


fire on freedom's harvest day ! 


And its shadow remain ? 


ElCHAKD ChENEVIX TeBNOH. 



EACH AND ALL. 



687 



THEEE BE THOSE. 

There be those who sow beside 
The waters that in silence glide, 
Trusting no echo will declare 
Whose footsteps ever wandered there. 

The noiseless footsteps pass away, 
The stream flows on as yesterday ; 
Nor can it for a time be seen 
A benefactor there had been. 



Yet think not that the seed is dead 
Which in the lonely place is spread ; 
It lives, it lives — the Spring is nigh. 
And soon its life shall testify. 

That silent stream, that desert ground, 
No more unlovely shall be found ; 
But scattered flowers of simplest grace 
Shall spread their beauty round the place. 

And soon or late a time will come 
When witnesses, that now are dumb, 
With grateful eloquence shall tell 
From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. 

Beenaed Baeton. 



EACH AND ALL. 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked 

clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 
Ear-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine 

height ; 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
All are needed by each one — 
Nothing is fair or good alone. 



I thought the sparrow's note from heaven. 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
I brought him home, in his nest, at even. 
He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; 
For I did not bring home the river and 

sky: 
He sang to my ear — they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 
And the bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam — 
I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
Had left their beauty on the shore. 
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild up- 
roar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid, 

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed ; 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 

At last she came to his hermitage. 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the 

cage* 
The gay enchantment was undone — 
A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, "I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat — 

I leave it behind with the games of youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. 

Running over the club-moss burrs ; 

I inhaled the violet's breath ; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 

Over me soared the eternal sky. 

Full of light and of deity ; 

Again I saw, again I heard, 

The rolling river, the morning bird ; 

Beauty through my senses stole — 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 

Ealph Waldo Emekson 



688 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 



THE LOST OHUKOH. 

In yonder dim and pathless wood 

Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour, 
And peals of solemn music swell 

As from some minster's lofty tower. 
From age to age those sounds are heard, 

Borne on the breeze at twilight hour — 
From age to age no foot hath found 

A pathway to the minster's tower ! 

Late, wandering in that ancient wood, 

As onward through the gloom I trod. 
From all the woes and wrongs of earth 

My soul ascended to its God, 
"When lo ! in the hushed wilderness 

I heard, far off, that solemn bell : 
Still, heavenward as my spirit soared, 

"Wilder and sweeter rang the knell. 

"While thus in holy musings wrapt. 

My mind from outward sense withdrawn. 
Some power had caught me from the earth, 

And far into the heavens upborne. 
Methought a hundred years had passed 

In mystic visions as I lay — 
"When suddenly the parting clouds 

Seemed opening wide, and far away. 

Ko midday sun its glory shed. 

The stars were shrouded from my sight ; 
And lo ! majestic o'er my head, 

A minster shone in solemn light. 
High through the lurid heavens it seemed 

Aloft on cloudy wings to rise, 
Till all its pointed turrets gleamed, 

Far flaming, through the vaulted skies ! 

The bell with full resounding peal 

Eang booming through the rocking tower ; 
No hand had stirred its iron tongue, 

Slow swaying to the storm-wind's power. 
My bosom beating like a bark 

Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, 
I trod with faltering, fearful joy 

The mazes of the mighty dome. 

A soft light through the oriel streamed 
Like summer moonlight's golden gloom. 

Far through the dusky arches gleamed. 
And filled with glory all the room. 



Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 
Seemed waking from their icy thrall ; 

And many a glory-circled head 
Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 

Low at the altar's foot I knelt, 

Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dread; 
For, blazoned on the vaulted roof, 

"Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. 
Yet when I raised my eyes once more. 

The vaulted roof itself was gone — 
"Wide open was heaven^s lofty door. 

And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 

"What visions burst upon my soul, 

"What joys unutterable there 
In waves on waves for ever roU 

Like music through the pulseless air — 
Tkese never mortal tongue may tell : 

Let him who fain would prove their power 
Pause when he hears that solemn knell 

Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 

LtTDwiG Uhland (German). 
Paraphrase of Saeah Helen Whitman. 



THE GAEDEIT OF LOVE. 

I WENT to the Garden of Love, 
And saw what I never had seen ; 
A chapel was built in the midst, 
"Where I used to play on the green. 

And the gate of this chapel was shut, 
And " thou shalt not " writ over the door ; 
So I turned to the Garden of Love, 
That so many sweet flowers bore. 

And I saw it was filled with graves. 

And tomb-stones where flowers should be ; 

And priests in black gowns were walking 
their rounds. 

And binding with briars my joys and de- 
sires. 

William Blake. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



68S 



THE PROBLEM. 

I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl — 
I love a prophet of the soul ; 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles ; 
Yet not for all his faith can see, 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 
Why should the vest on him allure 
Which I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 

His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 

Up from the burning core below — 

The canticles of love and woe ; 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 

Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 

Himself from God he could not free ; 

He builded better than he knew — 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's 

nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
Painting with morn each annual cell ? 
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 
Such and so grew these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
As the best gem upon her zone ; 
And Morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky. 
As on its friends, with kindred eye : 
For out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air ; 
And nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race, 
And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 
44 



These temples grew as grows the grass — 

Art- might obey, but not surpass. 

The passive master lent his hand 

To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; 

And the same power that reared the shrine 

Bestrode the tribes that knelt withm. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 

Girds with one flame the countless host, 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs. 

And through the priest the miud inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 

The word by seers or sibyls told, 

In groves of oak, or fanes of gold. 

Still floats upon the morning wind. 

Still whispers to the willing mind. 

One accent of the Holy Ghost 

The heedless world hath never lost. 

I know what say the fathers wise — 

The book itself before me lies — 

Old Ohrysostom, best Augustine, 

And he who blent both in his line. 

The younger golden lips or mines — 

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines ; 

His words are music in my ear — 

I see his cowled portrait dear ; 

And yet, for all his faith could see, 

I would not the good bishop be. 

Ealph Waldo Emerson. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

Geay. 

My loved, my honored, much -respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. 
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and 
praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

ways — 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 

there, I ween. 



690 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugli ; 
The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the plengh, 
The black'ning trains o' cra^ys to their re- 
pose. 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes — 

This night his weekly moil is at an end — 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend ; 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thro' 
To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie. 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's 
smile. 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labor and 
his toil. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in — 
At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town. 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new 
gown, 
Or deposite her sair-won penny fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hard- 
ship be. 

"Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed 
fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years — 

Antioipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the 
new; 

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due : 



Their masters' and their mistresses' com- 
mand 

The younkers a' are warned to obey, 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play ; 
An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 

They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright ! 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
"Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his 
name. 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 

Weel pleased the mother hears it 's nae 
wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben — 
A strappan youth, he taks the mother's 
eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye; 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 

grave — 
Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected 
like the lave. 

happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond com- 
pare! 

1 've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'T is when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
the evening gale. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NlGHT. 



691 



Is there, in human form that bears a heart, 

A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 

child- 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board : 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
food; 
The soup their only hawkie does afford. 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cud; 
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck 
fell, 
An' aft he 's pressed, and aft he ca's it good ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was 
i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big Ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 

And "Let us worship God! " he says with 
solemn air. 

They chant their artless not<^-s in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

aim ; 

Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures 

rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy o' the name ; 

Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame— 

The sweetest far o' Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 



The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 

raise — 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's 

praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page : 
How Abraham was the friend of God on 
high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 
How guiltless blood for guilty man M^as 
shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name. 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 
How His first followers and servants sped— 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land ; 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Bab'lon's doo m p renounced 
by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays : 

Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing " 
That thus they all shaU meet in future days ; 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
ISTo more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear, 
While circling time moves round in an 
eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride. 
In all the pomp of method and of art, 

When men display to congregations wide 
Devotion's every grace except the heart ! 

The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But haply, in some cottage far apart, 



692 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



May hear, well pleased, tlie language of the 

soul, 
And in His book of life the inmates poor 

enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
quest 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide — 

But chiefly in their hearts with grace di- 
vine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad. 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings — 
"An honest man's the noblest work of 
God;" 
And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness re- 
fined! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved isle. 

Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 
That streamed through Wallace's undaunted 
heart — 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part — 



(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art — 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
In bright succession raise, her ornament 
and guard ! 

EOBEKT BlTENS. 



HALLOWED GEOUND. 

What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That 's hallowed ground where, mourned and 

missed. 
The lips repose our love has kissed : — 
But where 's their memory's mansion ? Is 't 

Yon churchyard 's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound ; 
The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven. 
Is hallowed down to earth's profound. 

And up to Heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould ; 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'T is not the sculptured piles you heap ! — 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom, 
Or genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind — 



THE HAPPY LIFE, 



693 



And is he dead whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums, and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death 's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place, our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — But Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
The cause of truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To peace and love. 

Peace ! love ! — the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine ! 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

■ Where they are not ; 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chaunt. 

The ticking wood- worm mocks thee, man 1 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there 's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is Heaven I 

Its roof star-pictured ISTature's ceiling. 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing. 

The harmonious spheres 
Made music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 



Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can siu, can death, your worlds obscure ? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love I 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time : 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason, on his mortal clime, 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives 

birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth, 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will — 
Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skiU ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death — 
Untied unto the worldly care 
Of public fame or private breath ! 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed. 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
ITor ruin make oppressors great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend : 



694 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall — 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sib Henby "Wotton. 



MAK. 



My God, I heard this day 
That none doth build a stately habitation 
But he that means to dwell therein. 
"What house more stately hath there been, 
Or can be, than is Man, to whose creation 
All things are in decay ? 

For Man is every thing. 

And more : he is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 

A beast, yet is, or should be, more — 

Reason and speech we only bring. 

Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute — 

They go upon the score. 

Man is all symmetric — 
Full of proportions, one limb to another, 
And all to all the world besides. 
Each part may call the farthest brother ; 
For head with foot hath private amitie. 

And both with moons and tides. 

IJJ'othing hath got so farre 
But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 
His eyes dismount the highest starre ; 
He is in little all the sphere. 
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 
Finde their acquaintance there. 

For us the winds do blow. 
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and foun- 
tains flow. 
Nothing we see but means our good. 
As our delight, or as our treasure ; 
The whole is either our cupboard of food 
Or cabinet of pleasure. 

The starres have us to bed — 
Night draws the curtain, which the sunne 
withdraws. 
Musick and light attend our head ; 
All things unto our flesh are kinde 
In their descent and being — ^to our minde 
In their ascent and cause. 



Each thing is full of dutie : 
Waters united are our navigation — 
Distinguished, our habitation ; 
Below, our drink — above, our meat ; 
Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such 
beautie ? 

Then how are all things neat ! 

More servants wait on Man 
Than he '11 take notice of. In every path 
He treads down that which doth befriend 

him 
When sicknesse makes him pale and wan. 
O mightie love ! Man is one world, and hath 
Another to attend him. 



Since then, my God, Thou hast 
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it. 
That it may dwell with Thee at last! 
Till then afford us so much wit 
That, as the world serves us, we may serve 
Thee, 
And both Thy servants be. 

Geobge Hkbbebt. 



HEAVENLY WISDOM. 

HAPPY is the man who hears 
Instruction's warning voice. 

And who celestial Wisdom makes 
His early, only choice ; 

For she has treasures greater far 

Than east or west unfold. 
And her reward is more secure 

Than is the gain of gold. 

In her right hand she holds to view 

A length of happy years ; 
And in her left the prize of fame 

And honor bright appears. 

She guides the young, with innocence, 
In pleasure's path to tread ; 

A crown of glory she bestows 
Upon the hoary head. 



ODE. 



695 



According as her labors rise, 

So her rewards increase ; 
Her ways are ways of pleasantness, 

And all her paths are peace. 

John Logan. 



SEED-TIME AI^D HARVEST. 

As o'er his furrowed jSelds, which lie 
Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, 
Yet chill with Winter's melted snow. 
The husbandman goes forth to sow : 

Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast 
The ventures of thy seed we cast, 
And trust to w^armer sun and rain 
To swell the germ, and fill the grain. 

Who calls thy glorious service hard ? 
Who deems it not its own reward ? 
Who, for its trials, counts it less 
A cause of praise and thankfulness ? 

It may not be our lot to wield 
The sickle in the ripened field ; 
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves. 
The reaper's song among the sheaves ; 

Yet where our duty's task is wrought 
In unison with God's great thought, 
The near and future blend in one,- 
And whatsoe'er is wUled is done ! 

A.nd ours the grateful service whence 
Comes, day by day, the recompense — 
The hope, the trust, the purpose staid, 
The fountain, and the noonday shade. 

And were this life the utmost span, 
The only end and aim of man. 
Better the toil of fields like these 
Than waking dream and slothful ease. 

Our life, though falling like our grain. 
Like that revives and springs again ; 
And early called, how blest are they 
Who wait in heaven their harvest-day ! 
John Geeenleaf Whittiee. 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMOETALITT FEOM EEOOL- 
LECTIONS OF EAELT CHILDHOOD. 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and 

stream. 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light — 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore : 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen, I now can see 
no more. 



The rainbow comes and goes. 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, . 
That there hath passed away a glory from 
the earth. 



Fow, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief ; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 



No more shall grief of mine the season wrong. 
I hear the echoes through the mountains 

throng ; 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity ; 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou child of joy. 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou 
happy shepherd boy ! 



696 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


lY. 


And no unworthy aim. 


Ye blessed creatures ! I have heard the call 


The homely nurse doth all she can 


Ye to each other make ; I see 


To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 


The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 


Forget the glories he hath known. 


My heart is at your festival, 


And that imperial palace whence he came. 


My head hath its coronal — 




The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 


YII. 


evil day I if I were sullen 


Behold the child among his new-born blisses — 


While Earth herself is adorning, 


A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 


This sweet May -morning, 


See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 


And the children are culling 


Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 


On every side, 


With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 


In a thousand valleys far and wide, 


See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 


Fresh flowers; while the sun shines 


Some fragment from his dream of human life. 


warm, 


Shaped by himself with newly-learned art — 


And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 


A wedding or a festival. 


I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 


A mourning or a funeral — 


— But there 's a tree, of many one, 


And this hath now his heart, 


A single field which I have looked upon — 


And unto this he frames his song. 


Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 


Then will he fit his tongue 


The pansy at my feet 


To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 


Doth the same tale repeat. 


But it will not be long 


Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 


Ere this be thrown aside. 


Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 


And with new joy and pride 




The little actor cons another part — 


V. 


riUing from time to time his "humorous 


Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 


stage " 


The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 


With aU the persons, down to palsied age. 


Hath had elsewhere its setting. 


That life brings with her in her equipage ; 


And cometh from afar. 


As if his whole vocation 


Not in entire forgetfulne&s, 


Were endless imitation. 


And not in utter nakedness. 




But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 


vni. 


From God, who is our home. 


Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 


Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 


Thy soul's immensity ! 


Shades of the prison-house begin to close 


Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 


Upon the growing boy ; 


Thy heritage ! thou eye among the blind. 


But he beholds the light, and whence it 


That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep 


flows — 


Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ! — 


He sees it in his joy. 


Mighty prophet ! Seer blest, 


The youth, who daily farther from the east 


On whom those truths do rest 


Must travel, still is nature's priest, 


Which we are tolling all our lives to find. 


And by the vision splendid 


In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ! 


Is on his way attended ; 


Thou over whom thy immortality 


At length the man perceives it die away. 


Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 


And fade into the light of common day. 


A presence which is not to be put by ! 




Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 


VI. 


Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 


Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own. 


Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- 


Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind ; 


voke 


And, even with something of a mother's mind. 


The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 



ODE 



TliTis blindlj with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly 

freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



IX. 

O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction : not, indeed. 
For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
"With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings, 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble Hke a guilty thing surprised — 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 
Are yet a master hght of all our seeing. 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 
make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. 

To perish never — 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither — 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 
more. 



Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so 

bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the 
hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower — 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind : 

In the primal sympathy 

Which, having been, must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks through death' 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and 

groves. 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
I only have relinquished one delight 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the brooks which down their channels 

fret. 
Even more than when I tripped hghtly as 

they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are 

won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears — 
To me the meanest flower that blows can 

give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
"William Woedstv'Oeth. 



698 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


THE LIGHT OF STAKS. 


mawr. 


The night is come, but not too soon ; 


When I survey the bright 


And sinking silently, 


Celestial sphere. 


All silently, the little moon 


So rich with jewels hung that Night 


Drops down behind the sky. 


Doth like an Ethiop bride appear, 


There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 


My soul her wings doth spread, 

And heavenward flies. 
The Almighty's mysteries to read 

In the large volume of the skies. 


Is it the tender star of love ? 


. 


The star of love and dreams ? 


For the bright firmament 


no ! from that blue tent above 


Shoots forth no flame 


A hero's armor gleams. 


So silent but is eloquent 




In speaking the Creator's name ; 


And earnest thoughts within me rise, 




When I behold afar, 


No unregarded star 


Suspended in the evening skies, 


Contracts its light 


The shield of that red star. 


Into so small character, 




Eemoved far from our human sight. 


star of strength ! I see thee stand 




And smile upon my pain ; 




Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 


But if we steadfast look, 
We shaU discern 




In it, as in some holy book. 


Within my breast there is no light, 


How man may heavenly knowledge 


But the cold Hght of stars : 


learn. 


I give the first watch of the night 




To the red planet Mars. 


It tells the conqueror 




That far-stretched power, 


The star of the unconquered will. 


Which his proud dangers traflic for. 


He rises in my breast. 


Is but the triumph of an hour — 


Serene, and resolute, and still, 




And calm, and self-possessed. 


That from the farthest north 




Some nation may. 


And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art. 


Yet undiscovered, issue forth. 


That readest this brief psalm. 


And o'er his new-got conquest sway ; 


As one by one thy hopes depart, 




Be resolute and calm ! 


Some nation, yet shut in 




With hills of ice. 


fear not in a world like this, 


May be let out to scourge his sin. 


And thou shalt know ere long. 


Till they shall equal him in vice. 


Know how sublime a thing it is 




To suffer and be strong. 


And they likewise shall 


Henby Wadswoeth Longfellow. 


Their ruin have ; 




For as yourselves your empires fall, 
And every kingdom hath a grave. 

1 





DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 



691 



There those celestial fires, 

Though seeming mute, 
The fallacy of our desires 

And all the pride of life confute. 

For thej have watched since first 

The world had birth, 
And found sin in itself accurst, . 

Ajid nothing permanent on earth. 
William Habington. 



THE STUEDY ROOK, FOR ALL HIS 
STREN"GTH. 

The sturdy rock, for all his strength, 
By raging seas is rent in twain ; 

The marble stone is pierced at length 
With little drops of drizzling rain ; 

The ox doth yield unto the yoke ; 

The steel obey'th the hammer stroke ; 

The stately stag, that seems so stout. 
By yelping hounds at bay is set ; 

The swiftest bird that flies about 
Is caught at length in fowler's net ; 

The greatest fish in deepest brook 

Is soon deceived with subtle hook ; 

Yea ! man himself, unto whose will 
All things are bounden to obey. 

For all his wit and worthy skiU 
Doth fade at length, and fall away : 

There is no thing but time doth waste — 

The heavens, the earth consume at last. 

But Virtue sits triumphing still 
Upon the throne of glorious Fame ; 

Though spiteful Death man's body kill. 
Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. 

By life or death, whatso betides, 

The state of Virtue never slides. 

Anontmous. 



VIRTUE. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 



Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye I 
Thy root is ever in its grave — 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ! 
My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
Then chiefly lives. 

Geobge Heebbet. 



DEATH'S FmAL CONQUEST. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against Fate — 
Death lays his icy hands on kings ; 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down. 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field. 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield — 
They tame but one another stiU ; 
Early or late 
They stoop to Fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar, now, 
See where the victor victim bleeds 1 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb — 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 

James Shieley. 



voo 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



THE HERMIT. 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is 

still, 
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness 

prove, 
"When nought but the torrent is heard on the 

hill. 
And nought but the nightingale's song in the 

grove, 
'T was thus, hj the cave of the mountain afar. 
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit 

began ; 
No more with himself or with nature at war, 
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man : 

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and 

woe, 
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay — 
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee 

to mourn ! 

soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass 

away! 
Full quickly they pass — but they never re- 
turn. 

" iNow, gliding remote on the verge of the sky. 

The moon, half extinguished, her crescent dis- 
plays; 

But lately I marked when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her 
blaze. 

Eoll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pur- 
sue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor again! 

But man's faded glory what change shall re- 
new? 

Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no 
more. 

1 mourn — but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for 

you; 

For morn is approaching your charms to re- 
store, 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering 
with dew. 



Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn — 
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save ; 
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering 

urn? 
when shall day dawn on the night of the 

grave ? " 

' 'T was thus, by the glare of false science be- 
trayed. 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. 

My thoughts wont to roam from shade on- 
ward to shade. 

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 

" O pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 

" Thy creature, who fain would not wander 
from Thee I 

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 

From doubt and from darkness Thou only 
canst free." 

'And darkness and doubt are now flying 
away; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 

So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray. 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 

See truth, love, and mercy in triumph de- 
scending, 

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! 

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses 
are blending, 

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.' 

James Bkattcb. 



THE STRIFE. 

The wish that of the living whole 

No life may fail beyond the grave — 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the sod? 

Are God and nature then at strife. 

That nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life, 

That I, considering every where 

Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear — 



THE SLEEP. 



701 



I falter where I firmly trod ; 

And, falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs, 

That slope through darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

Alpeed Tennyson. 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David! 
He, a negro and enslaved — 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear — 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Eed Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad. 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison. 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen ; 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the slave this glad evangel? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 

Henet Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



• THE SLEEP. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar. 

Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep — 
The senate's shout to patriot's vows — 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith, all undisproved — 

A little dust to overweep — 
And bitter memories, to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake ! — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep, 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
men, with wailing in your voices ! 
O delved gold the wallers' heap ! 

strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

"And giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dew drops mutely on the hiU ; 
His cloud above it saileth still. 

Though on its slope men toil and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed. 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Yea ! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 

In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 



702 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


For me, my heart that erst did go 


If fair Life her sister lost, 


Most like a tired child at a show,* 


On a boundless ocean tost. 


That sees through tears the juggler's leap, 


She would rove in great unrest, 


Would now its wearied vision close — 


Missing that warm loving breast. 


Would, childlike, on His love repose 


Now, when scared by wild alarms. 


Who " giveth His beloved sleep." 


She can seek her sister's arms — 




To that tender bosom flee, 


And friends ! — dear friends ! — when it shall be 


Sink to sleep in ecstasy. 


That this low breath is gone from me. 


ANOlTTMOtTS. 


And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one, most loving of you all, 






Say " Not a tear must o'er her fall "— 




"He giveth His beloved sleep." 


THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 


Elizabeth Baeeett Beowning. 






OuTSTEETOHKD beneath the leafy shade 




Of Windsor forest's deepest glade, 


•""• 


A dying woman lay ; 




Three little children round her stood, 


SLEEP. 


And there went up from the greenwood 




A woful wail that day. 


Weep you no more, sad fountains ! 




What need you flow so fast? 


" mother ! " was the mingled cry. 


Look how the snowy mountains 


" mother, mother ! do not die, 


Heaven's sun doth gently waste. 


And leave us all alone." 


But my sun's heavenly eyes 


" My blessed babes ! " she tried to say — 


View not your weeping. 


But the faint accents died away 


That now lies sleeping 


In a low sobbing moan. 


Softly, now softly lies 




Sleeping. 


And then, life struggling hard with deatli. 




And fast and strong she drew her breath, 


Sleep is a, reconciling — 

A rest that peace begets ; 
Doth not the sun rise smiling. 


And up she raised her head ; 
And, peering through the deep wood maze 


When fair at even he sets ? 


With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze. 


Kest you then, rest, sad eyes — 


"Will she not come?" she said. 


Melt not in weeping. 
While she lies sleeping 


Just then, the parting boughs between. 


Softly, now softly lies 
Sleeping. 

John D owl and. 


A little maid's light form was seen, 
All breathless with her speed ; 


A.nd, following close, a man came on 




(A portly man to look upon). 
Who led a panting steed. 


•- 


Lll'E AND DEATH. 






"Mother! " the little maiden cried 


Life and Death are sisters fair ; 


Or e'er she reached the woman's side. 


Yes, they are a lovely pair. 


And kissed her clay-cold cheek — 


Life is sung in joyous song; 


"I have not idled in the town. 


While men do her sister wrong. 


But long went wandering up and down, 


Calling her severe and stern 


The minister to seek. 


While her heart for them doth burn. 




Weave, then, weave a grateful wreath 


"They told me here, they told me there — 


For the sisters Life and Death. 


I think they mocked me every where ; 



KING DEATH. 



'703 



And when I found his home, 
And begged him on my bended knee 
To bring his book and come with me, 

Mother ! he would not come. 

"I told him how you dying lay. 
And could not go in peace away 

"Without the minister ; 
I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, 
But O ! my heart was fit to break — 

Mother ! he would not stir. 

" So, though my tears were blinding me, 
I ran back, fast as fast could be, 

To come again to you ; 
And here — close by — this squire I met, 
Who asked (so mild!) what made me fret ; 

And when I told him true, 

"'I will go with you, child,' he said, 
' God sends me to this dying bed ' — 

Mother, he 's here, hard by." 
While thus the little maiden spoke, 
The man, his back against an oak, 

Looked on with glistening eye. 

The bridle on his neck hung free. 

With quivering flank and trembling knee. 

Pressed close his bonny bay ; 
A statelier man — a statelier steed — 
Never on greensward paced, I rede, 

Than those stood there, that day. 

So, while the little maiden spoke, 
The man, his back against an oak. 

Looked on with glistening eye 
And folded arnis, and in his look 
Something that, like a sermon-book. 

Preached — "All is vanity." 

But when the dying woman's face 
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, 

He stepped to where she lay ; 
And, kneeling down, bent over her, 
Saying, — "I am a minister — 

My sister ! let us pray." 

And well, withouten book or stole, 
(God's words were printed on his soul !) 

Into the dying ear 
He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain, 
The things that unto life pertain. 

And death's dark shadows clear. 



He spoke of sinners' lost estate. 
In Christ renewed, regenerate — 

Of God's most blest decree, 
That not a single soul should die 
Who turns repentant, with the cry 

"Be merciful to me." 

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil. 
Endured but for a little while 

In patience, faith, and love — 
Sure, in God's own good time, to be 
Exchanged for an eternity 

Of happiness above. 

Then — as the spirit ebbed away — 
He raised his hands and eyes to pray 

That peaceful it might pass ; 
And then — the orphans' sobs alone 
Were heard, and they knelt, every one. 

Close round on the green grass. 

Such was the sight their wandering eyes 
Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise, 

Who reined their coursers back, 
Just as they found the long astray. 
Who, in the heat of chase that day. 

Had wandered from their track. 

But each man reined his pawing steed. 
And lighted down, as if agreed, 

In silence at his side ; 
And there, uncovered all, they stood — 
It was a wholesome sight and good 

That day for mortal pride. 

For of the noblest of the land 

Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band ; 

And, central in the ring, 
By that dead pauper on the ground, 
Her ragged orphans clinging round, 

Knelt their anointed king. 

KOBEET AND CAROLINE SOTTTHBY. 



KING DEATH. 

KmG Death was a rare old fellow ! 

He sat where no sun could shine ; 
And he lifted his hand so yellow. 

And poured out his coal-black wine. 

Eurrah ! for the coal Hack wine I 



704 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 



There came to him many a maiden 
"Whose eyes had forgot to shine, 

And widows, with grief o'erladen. 
For a draught of his sleepy wine. 
Hurrah ! for the coal-llacTc 



The scholar left all his learning ; 

The poet his fancied woes ; 
And the beauty her bloom returning. 

Like life to the fading rose. 

Hurrah ! for the coal-hlack wine I 

All came to the rare old fellow, 

Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine. 
As he gave them his hand so yellow, 
And pledged them in Death's black wine. 
Hurrah/ Hurrah/ 
Hurrah / for the coal-llack wine / 
Bakey Cornwall. 



DEATH. 



Beneath the endless surges of the deep. 
Whose green content o'erlaps them evermore, 
A host of mariners perpetual sleep. 
Too hushed to heed the wild commotion's 

roar; 
The emerald weeds glide softly o'er their 

bones. 
And wash them gently 'mid the rounded 

stones. 
No epitaph have they to tell their tale — 
Their birth-place, age, and story all are lost — 
Yet rest they deeply as, within the vale, 
Those sheltered bodies by the smooth slates 

crost ; 
And countless tribes of men lie on the hills. 
And human blood runs in the crystal rills. 

The air is full of men who once enjoyed 
The healthy element nor looked beyond : 
Many, who all their mortal strength em- 
ployed 
In human kindness — of their brothers fond ; 
And many more who counteracted fate 
And battled in the strife of common hate. 
Profoundest sleep enwraps them all around — 



Sages and sire, the child, and manhood strong. 
Shed not one tear; expend no sorrowing 

sound ; 
For O, Death stands to welcome thee and me ; 
And life hath in its breath a deeper mystery. 

I hear a beU that tolls an empty note. 

The mourning anthem and the sobbing 

prayer ; 
A grave fresh-opened, where the friends de- 
vote 
To mouldering darkness a still corpse, once 

fair 
And beautiful as morning's silver light. 
And stars which throw their clear fire on the 

night. 
She is not here who smiled within these eyes 
Warmer than Spring's first sunbeam through 

the pale 
And tearful air. — Resist these flatteries ; — 
O lay her silently alone, and in this vale 
Shall the sweet winds sing better dirge for her. 
And the fine early flowers her death-clothes 

minister. 

I 

I Death ! thou art the palace of our hopes, 
! The storehouse of our joys, great labor's end ; 
' Thou art the bronzed key which swiftly opes 
1 The coffers of the past ; and thou shalt send 
Such trophies to our hearts as sunny days 
When life upon its golden harpstring plays. 
And when a nation mourns a silent voice 
That long entranced its ear with melody, 
i How must thou in thy inmost soul rejoice 
I To wrap such treasure in thy boundless sea ; 
I And thou wert dignified if but one soul 
\ Had been enfolded in thy- twilight stole. 

I Triumphal arches circle o'er thy deep, 
j Dazzling with jewels, radiant with content; 
In thy vast arms the sons of genius sleep ; 
The carvings of thy spheral monument, 
Bearing no recollection of dim time 
Within thy green and most perennial prime. 
I And might I sound a thought of thy decree, 
I How lapsed the dreary earth in fragrant plea- 
sure, 
And hummed along o'er life's contracted sea, 
Like the swift petrel, mimicking the wave's 

measure ; 
But though I long, the sounds will never come, 
i For in thy majesty my lesser voice is dumb. 



LIFE. . 705 


Thou art not anxious of thy precious fame, 




But comest like the clouds soft stealing on ; 


SIT DOWiT, SAD SOUL. 


Thou soundest in a careless key the name 




Of him who to thy boundless treasury is won ; 


Sit down, sad soul, and count 


And yet he quickly cometh — for to die 


The moments flying ; 


Is ever gentlest to both low and high. 


Come — tell the sweet amount 


Thou therefore hast humanity's respect ; 


That's lost by sighing! 


They build thee tombs upon the green- hill- 


How many smiles ? — a score ? 


side, 


Then laugh, and count no more ; 


And will not suffer thee the least neglect, 


For day is dying ! 


And tend thee with a desolate sad pride ; 




For thou art strong, Death ! though sweet- 


Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 


ly so, 
And in thy lovely gentleness sleeps woe. 


And no more measure 


The flight of Time, nor weep 
The loss of leisure; 


what are we, who swim upon this tide 


But here, by this lone stream^ 


Which we call life, yet to thy kingdom come? 


Lie down with us, and dream 


Look not upon us till we chasten pride, 


Of starry treasure ! 


, And preparation make for thy high home ; 


We dream: do thou the same; 


And, might we ask, make measurely approach. 


We love — for ever ; 


And not upon these few smooth hours en- 
croach. 


We laugh, yet few we shame — 


The gentle never. 


I come, I come, think not I turn away ! 


Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ; 


Fold round me thy gray robe ! I stand to 
feel 


Then — ^hope and happy skies 


Are thine for ever ! 


The setting of my last frail earthly day. 


Bakey Coenwall. 


I will not pluck it off, but calmly kneel — 




For I am great as thou art, though not thou. 


* 


And thought as with thee dwells upon my 




brow. 


LIFE. 


Ah ! might I ask thee, spirit, first to tend 


We are born; we laugh ; we weep ; 


Upon those dear ones whom my heart has 


We love ; we droop ; we die ! 


found, 


Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep? 


And supplicate thee, that I might them lend 


Why do we live or die? 


A light in theu' last hours, and to the ground 


Who knows that secret deep ? 


Consign them still — yet think me not too 


Alas, not I ! 


weak — 




Come to me now, and thou shalt find me 


Why doth the violet spring 


meek. 


Unseen by human eye ? 


Then let us live in fellowship with thee, 


Why do the radiant seasons bring 


And turn our ruddy cheeks thy kisses pale. 
And listen to thy song as minstrelsy. 


Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 


And still revere thee, till our hearts' throbs 


To thmgs that die ? 


fail- 


We toil — through pain and wrong ; 


Sinking within thy arms as sinks the sun 


We fight— and fly ; 


Below the farthest hills, when his day's work 


We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 


is done. 

William Elleet Channinq. 


Stone-dead we lie. 




life! is all thy song 


♦ 


"Endure and— die?" 


45 


Baeey Coenwall. 



'706 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


A PSAT-M OF HFE. 


FOOTSTEPS OF ANGFJ,S. 


WHAT THE HEAET OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID 


When the hours of day are numbered. 


TO THE PSALMIST. 


And the voices of the night 




Wake the better soul that slumbered 


Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
*' Life is but an empty dream ! " 


To a holy, calm dehght — 


For the soul is dead that slumbers, 


Ere the evening lamps are lighted. 


And things are not what they seem. 


And, like phantoms grim and tall. 




Shadows from the fitful fire-light 


Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 


Dance upon the parlor wall ; 


And the grave is not its goal ; 




" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 


Then the forms of the departed 


Was not spoken of the soul. 


Enter at the open door — 




The beloved ones, the true-hearted. 


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 


Come to visit me once more ; 


Is our destined end or way ; 




But to act, that each to-morrow 


He, the young and strong, who cherished 


Find us farther thn,n to-day. 


IToble longings for the strife, 




By the road-side fell and perished. 


Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 


Weary with the march of life ! 


And our hearts, though stout and brave, 




Still, like muffled drums, are beating 


They, the holy ones and weakly. 


Funeral marches to the grave. 


Who the cross of suffering bore. 




Folded their pale hands so meekly. 


In the world's broad field of battle, 


Spake with us on earth no more ! 


In the bivouac of life, 




Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 


And with them the being beauteous 


Be a hero in the strife ! 


Who unto my youth was given, 
More than all things else to love me, 


Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 


And is now a saint in heaven. 


Let the dead past bury its dead ! 


With a slow and noiseless footstep 


Act — act in the living present ! 


Comes that messenger divine, 


Heart within, and God o'erhead I 


Takes the vacant chair beside me, 




Lays her gentle hand in mine ; 


Lives of great men all remind us 




"We can make our lives sublime, 


And she sits and gazes at me 


And, departing, leave behind us 


With those deep and tender eyes. 


Footprints on the sands of time- 


Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 




Looking downward from the skies. 


Footprints that perhaps another, 


Uttered not, yet comprehended. 


Sailing o'er life's solemn main 


Is the spirit's voiceless prayer. 


A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 


Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 


Seeing, shall take heart again. 


Breathing from her lips of air. 


Let us, then, be up and doing. 


0, though oft depressed and lonely. 


With a heart for any fate ; 


All my fears are laid aside. 


Still achieving, still pursuing. 


If I but remember only 


Learn to labor and to wait. 


Such as these have lived and died ! 


Hbnet Wadswoeth Longfellow. 


Heney Wadswoeth Longfellow. 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 



707 



MAN'S MOKTALITY. 

Like as the damask rose you see, 
Or like the blossom on the tree, 
Or like the dainty flower in May, 
Or like the morning of the day. 
Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
Or like the gourd which Jonas had — 
E'en such is man ; — whose thread is spun, 
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — 
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 
The sun sets, the shadow flies, 
The gourd consumes — and man he dies ! 

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, 
Or like a tale that 's new begun, 
Or like the bird that 's here to-day, 
• Or like the pearled dew of May, 
Or like an hour, or like a span, 
Or like the singing of a swan — 
E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath, 
Is here, now there, in life and death. — 
The grass withers, the tale is ended, 
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended. 
The hour is short, the span is long. 
The swan 's near death — man's life is done ! 

Simon Wastell 



LIFE. 



Like to the falling of a star. 
Or as the flights of eagles are. 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew. 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies. 
The spring entombed in autumn lies, 
The dew dries up, the star is shot. 
The flight is past — and man forgot ! 

Henry King. 



SONNET. 

Of mortal glory soon darkened ray ! 
O winged joys of man, more swift than wind I 
fond desires, which in our fancies stray ! 
trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments 

blind! 
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away 
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each 

mind. 
And, with that sun from whence it came 

combined, 
Now makes more radiant Heaven's eternal 

day. 
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears; 
Let widowed Music only roar and groan ; 
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the 

spheres. 
For dwelling place on earth for thee is none ! 
Death hath thy temple razed. Love's empire 

foiled. 

The world of honor, worth, and sweetness 

spoiled. 

"William Dbummond. 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 

Behold this ruin ! — 'T was a skull 
Once of ethereal spirits full ! 
This narrow cell was life's retreat ; 
This space was thought's mysterious seat ; 
What beauteous pictures filled this spot — 
What dreams of pleasures long forgot ! 
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, 
Has left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 
Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 
But start not at the dismal void ; — 
If social love that eye employed. 
If with no lawless fire it gleamed. 
But through the dew of kindness beamed, 
That eye shall be forever bright 
When stars and suns have lost their light. 



Here, in this silent cavern, hung 
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue: 



708 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



If falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And, where it could not praise, was 

chained — 
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, 
Yet gentle concord never broke, 
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee 
When death unveils eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
Or with its envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem 
Can nothing now avail to them ; 
But if the page of truth they sought. 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that waits on wealth or fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the path of duty trod? 
If from the bowers of joy they fled 
To soothe affliction's humble bed— 
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to virtue's lap returned. 
These feet with angels' wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky. 

Anonymotis. 



HYMlsT OF THE CHTJEOH YAED. 

Ah me ! this is a sad and silent city ; 

Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey 
Its grassy streets with melancholy pity ! 
Where are its children ? where their glee- 
some play ? 
Alas ! their cradled rest is cold and deep, — 
Their play things are thrown by, and they 
asleep. 

This is pale beauty's bower ; but where the 
beautiful. 
Whom I have seen come forth at evening's 
hours, 

Leading their aged friends, with feelings duti- 
ful. 
Amid the wreaths of Spring to gather 
flowers ? 

Alas! no flowers are here but flowers of 
death. 

And those who once were sweetest sleep be- 
neath. 



This is a populous place: but where the 
bustling, — 
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart, — 
The lookers on, — the snowy garments rust- 
ling,— 
The money-changers, and the men of art? 
Business, alas ! hath stopped in mid career. 
And none are anxious to resume it here. 

This is the home of grandeur: where are 
they,— 
The rich, the great, the glorious, and the 
wise? 
Where are the trappings of the proud, the 
gay,— 
The gaudy guise of human butterflies ? 
Alas ! all lowly lies each lofty brow. 
And the green sod dizens their beauty now. 

This is a place of refuge and repose : 

Where are the poor, the old, the weary 

wight. 
The scorned, the humble, and the man of 

woes, 
Who wept for morn, and sighed again for 

night? 
Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they 

sleep 
Beside their scorners, and forget to weep. 

This is a place of gloom: where are the 
gloomy ? 
The gloomy are not citizens of death — 

Approach and look, where the long grass is 
plumy ; 
See them above ! they are not found be- 
neath ! 

For these low denizens, with artful wiles, 

Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic 
smiles. 

This is a place of sorrow : friends have met 
And mingled tears o'er those who answered 
not ; 

And where are they whose eyelids then were 
wet? 
Alas! their griefs, their tears, are all for- 
got; 

They, too, are landed in this silent city. 

Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor 
pity. 



THANATOPSIS. 



709 



This is a place of fear : the firmest eye 

Hath quailed to see its shadowy dreariness ; 
But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects 
high, 
And earthly cares, and nature's weariness. 
Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear. 
And long to end his painful journey here. 

John Bethxjne. 



THAN"ATOPSIS. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 

heart — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid with, many 

tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 

claim 
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements — 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 

oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 

mould. 



Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificenrt. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with 

kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the 

good — 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between — 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured 

round all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden son. 
The planets, aU the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where roUs the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are 

there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 

care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long 

train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men. 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who 

goes 



710 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



In tlie full strength of year&— matron, and 

maid, 
And the sweet habe, and the gray-headed 

man, — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to 

join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall 

take 
His chamber in the silent haUs of death, 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
William Cullen Beyant. 



THE DEATH OF THE YIRTUOUS. 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ? 

When sinks a righteous soul to rest. 
How mildly beam the closing eyes, 

How gently heaves th' expiring breast ! 

So fades a summer cloud away, 
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er. 

So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow. 
Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; — 

Where is, Grave ! thy victory now ? 
And where, insidious Death I thy sting ? 

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, 
Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 

How bright th' unchanging morn appears ;- 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 

Its duty done, — as sinks the day. 
Light from its load the spirit flies ; 

While heaven and earth combine to say 
" Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! " 

Anka L^titia Baebauld. 



ELEGY WRITTEIST EST A COUNTRY 

OHUROH-YARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to 
me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon com- 
plain 

Of such as, wand'riiig near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built 
shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall 
burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to shai-e. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 



Vll 



Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 



Await alike th' inevitable hour. — 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies 
raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and 
fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of 
praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial 

fire — 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have 

swayed. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er un- 
roll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark,unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless 
breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood — 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's 
blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty -o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 



Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
confined — 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlet- 
tered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look be- 
hiud? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored 
dead. 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 



712 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



" There at tlie foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so 
high, 
His listless length at noontide would he 
stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies he would 

rove — 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 

love. 

"One morn I missed him on the customed 
hill. 

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 
Another came — ^nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

•' The next, with dirges due in sad array. 
Slow through the church- way path we saw 
him borne : — 
Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the 
lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn." 



There scattered oft, the earliest of the year. 
By hands unseen, are showers of violets 
found ; 
The redbreast loves to build and warble 
there. 
And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere — 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear. 
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he 
wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread 
abode — 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gbat. 



PART X. 
POEMS OP RELIGION 



! WHAT is man, great Maker of mankind ! 

That Thou to him so great respect dost bear — 
That Thou adorn' st him with so bright a mind, 

Mak'st him a king, and even an angel's peer ? 

! what a lively life, what heavenly power, 
What spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire ! 

How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower 
Dost Thou within this dying flesh inspire ! 

Thou leav'st Thy print in other works of Thine, 
But Thy whole image Thou in man hast writ ; 

There cannot be a creature more divine. 
Except, like Thee, it should be infinite. 

But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high 
God hath raised man, since God a man became; 

The angels do admire this mystery. 
And are astonished when they view the same. 

Nor hath he given these blessings for a day, 
Nor made them on the body's life depend : 

The soul, though made in time, survives for aye ; 
And though it hath beginning, sees no end. 

Sib John Davies. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



DAEKNESS IS THIlOnNG. 

Daekness is thinning ; shadows are retreat- 
ing: 
Morning and light are coming in their beantj. 
Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry, 
God the Almighty! 

So that our Master, having mercy on us, 
May repel languor, may bestow salvation. 
Granting us. Father, of Thy loving kindness 
Glory hereafter! 

This of His mercy, ever Blessed Godhead, 
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us — 
Whom through the wide world celebrate for 
ever 

Blessing and Glory ! 

St. Gtbkgoky the Geeat. (Latin.) 
Translation of John Mason Nealb. 



EAELY EISING AND PKAYER. 

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul 

leave 
To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
The spirit's duty : true hearts spread and 

heave 
Unto their God as flowers do to the sun. 
Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt 

thou keep 
Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 



Yet never sleep the sun up, prayer should 
Dawn with the day; there are set awful 

hours 
'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not 

good 
After sun-rising ; far-day sullies flowers. 
Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 
And heaven's gate opens when the world's 

is shut. 

Walk with thy fellow-creatures: note the 

hush 
And whisperings among them. Not a spring 
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each 

bush 
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not 

sing? 
0, leave thy cares and follies ! go this way. 
And thou art ^re to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world ; let Him not go 
Until thou hast a blessing ; then resign 
The whole unto Him, and remember who 
Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine : 
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin. 
Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. 

Mornings are mysteries: the first, world's 

youth, 
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, 
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, 

light, truth. 
Is styled their star — the stone and hidden 

food. 
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which 
Should move— they make us holy, happy, 

rich. 



716 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


When the world's up, and every swarm 


In due order as they move, 


abroad, 


Echoes sweet be gently drove 


Keep well thy temper, mix not with each 


Through heaven's vast hoUowness, 


clay; 


Which unto all comers press — 


Despatch necessities ; life hath a load 


Music, that the heart of Jove 


Which must be carried on, and safely may : 


Moves to joy and sportful love, 


Yet keep those cares without thee ; let the 


Fills the listening sailor's ears, 


heart 


Riding on the wandering spheres. 


Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 


Neither speech nor language is 


HeNEY VATjaHAN. 


Where their voice is not transmiss. 
God is good, is wise, is strong — 




THE SPIRIT-T,Am). 


Witness all the creature-throng — 




Is confessed by every tongue. 


Fathee ! Thy wonders do not singly stand, 


All things back from whence they 


Nor far removed where feet have seldom 


sprung. 


strayed ; 


As the thankful rivers pay 


Around us ever lies the enchanted land. 


What they borrowed of the sea. 


In marvels rich to Thine own sons displayed ; 




In finding Thee are aU things round us found; 


Now, myself, I do resign ; 


In losing Thee are all things lost beside ; 


7 •/ 7 O ' 

Take me whole, I all am Thine. 


Ears have we, but in vain strange voices 


Save me, God ! from self-desire. 


sound; 


Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire, 


And to our eyes the vision is denied ; 


Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ; 
Let not lust my soul bemire. 


We wander in the country far remote. 


Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to 




dwell; 




Or on the records of past greatness dote. 


Quit from these. Thy praise I '11 sing, 


And for a buried soul the living sell ; 


Loudly sweep the trembling string. 


While on our path bewildered falls the night 


Bear a part, wisdom's sons. 


That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. 


Freed from vain religions ! 


Jones Veby. 


Lo ! from far I you salute. 


• 


Sweetly warbling on my lute — 


* 


India, Egypt, Araby, 




Asia, Greece, and Tartary, 


THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION. 


Carmel-tracts and Lebanon, 




With the mountains of the moon, 


Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse, 


From whence muddy Nile doth run; 


Who hath made the universe. 


Or, wherever else you won, 


He the boundless heavens has spread. 


Breathing in one vital air — 


AU the vital orbs has kned; 


One we are though distant far. 


He that on Olympus high 




Tends His flock with watchful eye ; 




And this eye has multiplied 


Rise at once — ^let's sacrifice ! 


Midst each flock for to reside. 


Odors sweet perfume the skies. 


Thus, as round about they stray, 


See how heavenly lightning fires 


Toucheth each with outstretched ray : 


Hearts infiamed with high aspires ; 


Nimbly they hold on their way, 


AU the substance of our souls 


Shaping out their night and day. 


Up in clouds of incense rolls ! 


Never slack they ; none respires, 


Leave we nothing to ourselves 


Dancing round their central fires. 


Save a voice — what need we else ? 

1 



THE BEE, 



111 



Or a hand to wear and tire 
On the thankful lute or lyre. 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made the universe. 

Henkt Moee. 



THE BEE. 

Feom fruitful beds and flowery borders, 
Parcelled to wasteful ranks and orders, 
Where state grasps more than plain truth 

needs. 
And wholesome herbs are starved by weeds, 
To the wild woods I will be gone. 
And the coarse meals of great Saint John. 

When truth and piety are missed, 

Both in the rulers and the priest ; 

When pity is not cold, but dead, 

And the rich eat the poor like bread ; 

While factious heads, with open coil 

And force, first make, then share, the spoil ; 

To Horeb then Elias goes. 

And in the desert grows the rose. 

Hail, crystal fountains and fresh shades, 
Where no proud look invades, 
No busy worldling hunts away 
The sad retirer all the day ! 
Hail, happy, harmless solitude ! 
Our sanctuary from the rude 
And scornful world ; the calm recess 
Of faith, and hope, and holiness ! 
Here something still like Eden looks — 
Honey in woods, juleps in brooks ; 
And flowers whose rich, unrifled sweets 
With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets. 
When the toils of the day are done, 
And the tired world sets with the sun. 
Here flying winds and flowing wells 
Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells ; 
Their busy murmurs all the night 
To praise or prayer do invite ; 
And with an awful sound arrest. 
And piously employ his breast. 

When in the East the dawn doth blush, 
Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush ; 



Herbs straight get up ; flowers peep and spread ; 
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head ; 
Birds, from the shades of night released. 
Look round about, then quit the nest. 
And with united gladness sing 
The glory of the morning's King. 
The hermit hears, and with meek voice 
Offers his own up, and their joys ; 
Then prays that all the world might be 
Blest with as sweet an unity. 

If sudden storms the day invade, 
They flock about him to the shade. 
Where wisely they expect the end. 
Giving the tempest time to spend ; 
And hard by, shelters on some bough 
Hilarion's servant, the sage crow. 
purer years of light and grace ! 
Great is the difference, as the space, 
'Twixt you and us, who blindly run 
After false fires, and leave the sun. 
Is not fair nature of herself 
Much richer than dull paint and pelf? 
And are not streams at the spring head 
More sweet than in carved stone or lead ? 
But fancy and some artist's tools 
Frame a religion for fools. 

The truth, which once was plainly taught. 
With thorns and briars now is fraught. 
Some part is with bold fables spotted. 
Some by strange comments wildly blotted ; 
And discord, old corruption's crest. 
With blood and blame have stained the rest. 
So snow, which in its first descents 
A whiteness like pure heaven presents. 
When touched by man is quickly soiled. 
And after trodden down and spoiled. 

lead me where I may be free 
In truth and spirit to serve Thee ! 
Where undisturbed I may converse 
With Thy great Self ; and there rehearse 
Thy gifts with thanks ; and from Thy store. 
Who art all blessings, beg much more. 
Give me the wisdom of the bee. 

And her unwearied industry ! 

That from the wild gourds of these days, 

1 may extract health, and Thy praise 
Who canst turn darkness into light. 
And in my weakness show Thy might. 



718 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Suffer me not in any want 


Thou who hast given me eyes to see 


To seek refreshment from a plant 


And love this sight so fair. 


Thou didst not set ; since all must be 


Give me a heart to find out Thee 


Plucked up whose growth is not from Thee. 


And read Thee every where. 


'Tis not the garden and the bowers, 


John Keblh. 


Nor sense and forms, that give to flowers 




Their wholesomeness ; but Thy good will, 


* 


Which truth and pureness purchase still. 






GOD m NATURE. 


Then, since corrupt man hath driven hence 




Thy kind and saving influence, 


Geeat Ruler of aU Nature's frame! 


And balm is no more to be had 




In all the coasts of Gilead — 

Go with me to the shade and cell 


We own Thy power divine ; 
We hear Thy breath in every storm, 
For all the winds are Thine. 


Where Thy best servants once did dwell. 




There let me know Thy will, and see 




Exiled religion owned by Thee ; 


Wide as they sweep their sounding way, 


For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls. 


They work Thy sovereign wiU ; 


And make hills blossom like the vales, 
Decking their untilled heads with flowers, 


And awed by Thy majestic voice, 
Confusion shall be stiU. 


And fresh delights for all sad hours ; 




Till from them, like a laden bee, 


Thy mercy tempers every blast 


I may fly home, and hive with Thee ! 


To them that seek Thy face, 


TTeney Vaitghan. 


And mingles with the tempest's roar 




The whispers of Thy grace. 
Those gentle whispers let me hear, 




THE ELDER SCRIPTURE. 


Tin all the tumult cease ; 


Theee is a book, who runs may read, 


And gales of Paradise shall lull 


Which heavenly truth imparts, 


My weary soul to peace. 

PHn.TP DODDBIDGB. 


And all the lore its scholars need — 


Pure eyes and loving hearts. 


—^— 


The works of God, above, below, 




Within us, and around, 


FOR NEW-YEAR'S DAY. 


Are pages in that book, to show 




How God himself is found. 


Eteenal source of every joy ! 


The glorious sky, embracing all, 


WeU may Thy praise our lips employ. 


Is like the Father's love ; 


While in Thy temple we appear 


Wherewith encompassed, great and small 


Whose goodness crowns the circling year. 


In peace and order move. 






While as the wheels of nature roll. 


The dew of heaven is like His grace : 


Thy hand supports the steady pole ; 


It steals in silence down ; 


The sun is taught by Thee to rise. 


But where it lights, the favored place 


And darkness when to veil the skies. 


By richest fruits is known. 




Two worlds are ours : tis only sin 


The flowery spring at Thy command 


Forbids us to descry 


Embalms the air, and paints the land ; 


The mystic heaven and earth within. 


The summer rays with vigor shine 


Plain as the earth and sky. 


To raise the corn, and cheer the vine. 



AN ODE. 



719 



Thy hand in autumn richly pours 
Through all our coasts redundant stores ; 
And winters, softened by Thy care, 
No more a face of horror wear. 



Seasons, and months, and weeks, and days 
Demand successive songs of praise ; 
Still he the cheerful homage paid 
With opening light and evening shade. 



Here in Thy house shall incense rise, 
As circling Sabbaths bless our eyes ; 
Still will we make Thy mercies known, 
Around Thy board, and round our own. 



may our more harmonious tongues 
In worlds unknown pursue the songs ; 
And in those brighter courts adore 
Where days and years revolve no more. 

Philip Doddeidge. 



"MARK THE SOFT-FALLING SNOW." 

Maek the soft-falling snow, 
And the diffusive rain : 
To heaven from whence it fell, 
It turns not back again, 

But waters earth 

Through every pore, 

And calls forth all 

Its secret store. 



Arrayed in beauteous green 
The hills and valleys shine. 
And man and beast is fed 
By Providence divine ; 

The harvest bows 

Its golden ears, 

The copious seed 

Of future years. 

" So," saith the God of grace, 
" My gospel shaU descend — 
Almighty to effect 
The purpose I intend ; 



Millions of souls 
Shall feel its power, 
And bear it down 
To millions more. 

"Joy shall begin your march. 
And peace protect your ways, 
While all the mountains round 
Echo melodious praise ; 

The vocal groves 

Shall sing the God, 

And every tree 

Consenting nod." 

Philip Doddeidge, 



AN ODE. 

The spacious firmament on high. 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

The spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's power display ; 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, 
And nightly, to the listening earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars, that round her burn; 
And all the planets in their turn. 
Confirm the tidings as they roU, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark, terrestrial ball ? 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? 
In reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing as they shine 
" The hand that made us is divine ! " 

Joseph Addison. 



720 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


SUN, MOON, AND STAKS, PRAISE YE 


PRAISE FOR CREATION AND PROVI- 


THK LOED. 


DENCE. 


Fairest of all the lights above ! 


I SING the almighty power of God, 


Thou sun, whose beams adorn the spheres, 


That made the mountains rise, 


And with unwearied swiftness move 


That spread the flowing seas abroad, 


To form the circles of our years — 


And built the lofty skies. 


Praise the Creator of the skies. 


I sing the wisdom that orda,ined 


That dressed thine orb in golden rays ; 


The sun to rule the day ; 


Or may the sun forget to rise, 


The moon shines full at His command. 


If he forget his Maker's praise. 


And all the stars obey. 


Thou reigning beauty of the night. 




Fair queen of silence, silver moon. 


I sing the goodness of the Lord, 


Whose gentle beams and borrowed light 


That filled the earth with food ; 


Are softer rivals of the noon ; 


He formed the creatures with His word, 




And then pronounced them good. 


Arise, and to that sovereign power 




Waxing and waning honors pay. 


Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed 


Who bade thee rule the dusky hour, 


Where'er I turn mine eye — 


And half supply the absent day. 


If I survey the ground I tread. 




Or gaze upon the sky. 


Ye twinkling stars, who gild the skies 




When darkness has its curtains drawn. 




Who keep your watch, with wakeful eyes. 
When business, cares, and day are gone ; 


There 's not a plant or flower below, 

But makes Thy glories known ; 
And clouds arise and tempests blow, 




By order from Thy throne. 


Proclaim the glories of your Lord, 




Dispersed through all the heavenly street. 




Whose boundless treasures can afford 


Creatures (as numerous as they be) 


So rich a pavement for His feet. 


Are subject to thy care ; 




There 's not a place where we can flee 


Thou heaven of heavens, supremely bright, 


But God is present there. 


Fair palace of the court divine, 




Where, with inimitable light, 


In heaven He shines with beams of love, 


The Godhead condescends to shine — 


With wrath in hell beneath ! 




'T is on His earth I stand or move. 


Praise thou thy great Inhabitant, 


And 'tis His air I breathe. 


Who scatters lovely beams of grace 




On every angel, every saint, 


His hand is my perpetual guard ; 


Nor veils the lustre of His face ! 


He keeps me with His eye ; 




Why should I then forget the Lord, 


God of glory, God of love ! 


Who is for ever nigh ? 


Thou art the sun that makes our days ; 


Isaac Watts. 


With all Thy shining works above, 




Let earth and dust attempt Thy praise I 




Isaac Watts. 





IN A CLEAR STARRY NIGHT. 



721 



SmOEEE PKAISE. 

Almighty Maker, God ! 
How wondrous is Thy name ! 
Thy glories how diffused abroad 
Through the creation's frame ! 

Nature in every dress 
Her humble homage pays, 
And finds a thousand ways to express 
Thine undissembled praise. 

In native white and red 
The rose and lily stand, 
And, free from pride, their beauties 
spread 
To show Thy skilful hand. 

The lark mounts up the sky, 
With unambitious song, 
And bears her Maker's praise on high, 
IJpon her artless tongue. 

My soul would rise and sing 
To her Creator too — 
Fain would my tongue adore my King, 
And pay the worship due. 

But pride, that busy sin, 
Spoils all that I perform ; 
Cursed pride, that creeps securely in. 
And swells a haughty worm. 

Thy glories I abate. 
Or praise Thee with design ; 
Some of Thy favors I forget, 
Or think the merit mine. 

The very songs I frame 
Are faithless to Thy cause. 
And steal the honors of Thy name 
To build their own applause. 

Create my soul anew. 
Else all my worship 's vain ; 
This wretched heart will ne'er be true 
Until 't is formed again. 
46 



Descend, celestial fire, 
And seize me from above ; 
Melt me in flames of pure desire — 
A sacrifice to love. 

Let joy and worship spend 
The remnant of my days. 
And to my God, my soul, ascend 
In sweet perfumes of praise. 

Isaac Watts. 



LN" A CLEAK STAEEY NIGHT. 

LoED ! when those glorious lights I see 
With which Thou hast adorned the skies, 
Observing how they moved be, 
And how their splendor fills mine eyes, 

Methinks it is too large a grace. 
But that Thy love ordained it so — 
That creatures in so high a place 
Should servants be to man below. 

The meanest lamp now shining there 
In size and lustre doth exceed 
The noblest of Thy creatures here. 
And of our friendship hath no need. 

Yet these upon mankind attend. 
For secret aid, or public light ; 
And from the world's extremest end 
Repair unto us every night. 

O ! had that stamp been undefaced 
Which first on us Thy hand had set. 
How highly should we have been graced, 
Since we are so much honored yet. 

Good God, for what but for the sake 
Of Thy beloved and only Son, 
Who did on Him our nature take. 
Were these exceeding favors done ! 

As we by Him have honored been. 
Let us to Him due honors give ; 
Let His uprightness hide our sin. 
And let us worth from Him receive. 

Yea, so let us by grace improve 
What Thou by nature dost bestow 
That to Thy dwelling-place above 
We may be raised from below. 

Geoegb "Withee. 



722 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NA- 
TIVITY. 



This is the month, and this the happy morn, 
"Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, 
Of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring — 
For so the holy sages once did sing — 

That He our deadly forfeit should release. 
And with His Father work us a perpetual 
peace. 



That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty 
Wherewith He wont at heaven's high council- 
table 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside ; and here with us to be 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day. 
And chose with us a darksome house of mor- 
tal clay. 

in. 

Say, heavenly Muse! shall not thy sacred 

vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God ? 
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn 

strain, 
To welcome Him to this His new abode — 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team 

untrod, 
Hath took no print of the approaching 

light. 
And all the spangled host keep watch in 

squadrons bright? 

rv. 

See how from far upon the eastern road 
The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet ! 
run ! prevent them with thy humble ode, 
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the angel choir. 
From out His secret altar touched with hal- 
lowed fire. 



THE HYMN. 



It was the winter wild 
While the heaven-born child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
lies — 
Nature, in awe to Him, 
Had doffed her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize ; 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty para- 
mour. 

n. 

Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air 

To hide her guilty front with innocent 
snow. 
And on her naked shame, 
Pollute with sinful blame. 

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw — 
Confounded that her Maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformi- 
ties. 

ni. 

But He, her fears to cease. 

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 
She, crowded with olive green, came softly 
sliding 

Down through the turning sphere. 

His ready harbinger, 
With turtle wing the amorous clouds divid- 
ing; 

And waving wide her jnyrtle wand. 

She strikes a universal peace through sea 
and land. 

IV. 

Nor war, or battle's sound. 
Was heard the world around — 
The idle spear and shield were high up 

hung; 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed 

throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye. 
As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord 

was by. 



THE HYMN. ^ 723 


V. 


Answering the stringed noise. 


But peaceful was the night 


As all their souls in blissful rapture took ; 


Wherein the Prince of Light 


The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 


His reign of peace upon the earth began ; 


With thousand echoes still prolongs each 


The winds, with wonder whi^t, 


heavenly close. 


Smoothly the waters kissed, ' 




Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 


X. 


Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 


Nature, that heard such sound 


While birds of calm sit brooding on the 


Beneath the hollow round 


charmed wave. 


Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, 




Now was almost won 


VI. 


To think her part was done, 


The stars with deep amaze 


And that her reign had here its last ful- . 


Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 


filling ; 


Bending one way their precious influence ; 


She knew such harmony alone 


And will not take their flight 


Could hold all heaven and earth in happier 


For all the morning light, 


union. 


Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; 


"VT 


But in their glimmering orbs did glow 


Al. 


Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid 


At last surrounds their sight 


them go. 


A globe of circular light, 


That with long beams the shamefaced night 


yn. 


arrayed; 


And though the shady gloom 


The helmed Cherubim 


Had given day her room. 


And sworded Seraphim 


The sun himself withheld his wonted 


Are seen in glittering ranks with wings 


speed. 


displayed, 


And hid his head for shame, 


Harping in loud and solemn choir, 


As his inferior flame 


With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new- 


The new-enlightened world no more should 


born Heir — 


need; 


YTT 


He saw a greater sun appear 


JLU, 


Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree 


Such music (as 't is said) 


could bear. 


Before was never made. 




But when of old the sons of morning sung, 


VIII. 


While the Creator great 


The shepherds on the lawn, 


His constellations set. 


Or e'er the point of dawn, 


And the well-balanced world on hinges 


Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 


hung. 


Full little thought they then 


And cast the dark foundations deep, 


That the mighty Pan 


And bid the weltering waves their oozy 


Was kindly come to live with them below ; 


channel keep. 


Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 




Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 


xni. 


keep. 


Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 




Once bless our human ears. 


IX, 


If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 


When such music sweet 


And let your silver chime 


Their hearts and ears did greet 


Move in melodious time. 


As never was by mortal finger strook^ 


And let the bass of heaven's deep organ 


Divinely-warbled voice 


blow; 



724 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to the angelic sym- 
phony. 

xrv". 
For if such holy song 
Inwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back, and fetch the age of 
gold ; 
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die. 
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
mould ; 
And Hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the 
peering day. 

XV. 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 
WiU down return to men, 

Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories 

wearing, 
Mercy will sit between. 
Throned in celestial sheen. 
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down 

steering ; 
And heaven, as at some festival. 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace 

haU. 

XVI. 

But wisest Fate says No — 
This must not yet be so ; 

The babe yet lies in smiling infancy 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss. 

So both Himself and us to glorify. 
Yet first to those ye chained in sleep 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
through the deep, 

xvn. 
With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang, 

While the red fire and smouldering clouds 
out-brake ; 
The aged earth, aghast 
With terror of that blast, 

Shall from the surface to the centre shake — 
When, at the world's last session. 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread 
His throne. 



XVIII. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is — 

But now begins ; for from this happy day 
The old Dragon, under ground 
In straiter limits bound, 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 



The oracles are dumb ; 
No voice or hideous hum 
Euns through the arched roof in words 
deceiving ; 
ApoUo from his shrine 
Can no more divine. 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 
leaving ; 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- 
phetic ceU. 



The lonely mountains o'er, 
And the resounding shore, 

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edged with poplar pale. 

The parting genius is with sighing sent ; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
thickets mourn. 

XXI. 

In consecrated earth, 
And on the holy hearth. 
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight 

plaint ; 
In urns and altars round 
A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the flamens at their service 

quaint ; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat. 
While each peculiar Power foregoes his 

wonted seat. 

xxn. 
Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 

With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; 



EPIPHANY. 



725 



And mooned Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's queen and mother both, 

Now sits not girt with tapers' holj shine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn — 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 
Thammuz mourn. 



xxin. 
And sullen Moloch fled, 
Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
In vain, with cymbals' ring, 
They call the grisly king. 

In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast — 
Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis — ^haste. 



XXIV. 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Memphian grove or green, 

Trampling the unshowered grass with 
lo wings loud; 

Nor can he be at rest 

TVithin his sacred chest — 

Nought but profoundest hell can be his 
shroud ; 

In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his wor- 
shipped ark. 



He feels from Juda's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand — 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide — 

Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine ; 
Our babe, to show His God-head true. 
Can in His swaddling bands control the 
damned crew. 

XXVI. 

So, when the sun in bed. 
Curtained with cloudy red. 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail — 

Each fettered ghost slips to his several 
grave ; 



And the yellow-skirted fays 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving theii* 
moon-loved maze. 

xxvn. 

But see the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest — 

Time is our tedious song should here have 
ending ; 
Heaven's youngest teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car, 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
attending ; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order service- 
able. 

John Milton. 



EPIPHANY. 

Beightest and best of the sons of the morn- 
ing, 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine 
aid! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Eedeemer is laid ! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining ; 

Low lies His bed with the beasts of the 
stall; 
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining — 

Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of aU. 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, 

Odors of Edom, and offerings divine — 
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the 
ocean — 
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the 
mine? 

Yainly we offer each ample oblation, 
Vainly with gold would His favor secure ; 

Eicher by far is the heart's adoration, 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine 
aid! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Eedeemer is laid ! 
Eeginald Hebek. 



726 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



MESSIAH. 

Ye nymphs of Solyraa ! begin the song — 

To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 

The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 

The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 

Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire 

Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire ! 
Rapt into future times the bard began : 

A virgin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son ! 

From Jesse's root behold a branch arise 

Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the 
skies ! 

Th' ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 

And on its top descends the mystic dove. 

Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 

And ia soft silence shed the kindly shower ! 

The sick and weak the healing plant shall 
aid — 

From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 

All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds 
shall fail ; 

Returning Justice lift aloft her scale, 

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend. 

And white-robed Innocence from heaven de- 
scend. 

Swift fly the years, and rise the expected 
morn ! 

spring to light ! auspicious babe, be born ! 

See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to 
bring, 

With all the incense of the breathing spring ! 

See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; 

See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 

See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 

And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! 

Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 

Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 

A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply — 

The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 

Lo, earth receives Him from the bending 
skies ! 

Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys, 
rise! 

With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ! 

Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give 
way! 

The Saviour comes! by ancient bards fore- 
told— 

Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold ! 



He from thick films shall purge the visual 
ray, 

And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 

'T is He th' obstructed paths of sound shall 
clear. 

And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear ; 

The dumb shall sing ; the lame his crutch 
forego, 

And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 

No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall 
hear— 

From every face He wipes off every tear. 

In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 

And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. 

As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care. 

Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, 

Explores the lost, the wandering sheep di- 
rects, 

By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 

The tender lambs He raises in His arms — 

Feeds from His hand, and in His bosom 
warms : 

Thus shall mankind His guardian care en- 



The promised father of the future age. 
N"o more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er. 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
And the broad falchion in a plough-share end. 
Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
And the same hand that sowed shall reap the 

field; 
The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise ; 
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 
New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush 

nods; 
Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with 

thorn. 
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 
To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed. 
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed ; 
The lambs with wolves shall graze the ver- 
dant mead, 
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ; 



CHRIST'S MESSAGE. 



121 



The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 
The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
The crested basilisk and speckled snake — 
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, 
And with their forked tongue shall innocently 

play. 
Else, crowned with light, imperial Salem, 

rise! 
Extilt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes I 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn. 
In crowding ranks on every side arise. 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
"Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate 

kings, 
And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 
For Thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
See heaven its sparkling portals wide dis- 
play, 
And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
O'erflow thy courts ; the Light Himself shall 

shine 
Kevealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke de- 
cay, 
Eocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
But fixed His word, His saving power re- 
mains ; 
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah 
reigns ! 

Alexander Pope. 



TWELFTH DAY, OE THE EPIPHANY. 

That so Thy blessed birth, O Christ, 
Might through the world be spread about, 
Thy star appeared in the East, 
Whereby the Gentiles found Thee out ; 
And offering Thee myrrh, incense, gold, 
Thy three-fold office did unfold. 



Sweet Jesus, let that star of Thine — 
Thy grace, which guides to find out Thee — 
Within our hearts for ever shine. 
That Thou of us found out may'st be ; 
And Thou shalt be our King therefore. 
Our Priest and Prophet evermore. 

Tears that from true repentance drop. 
Instead of myrrh, present will we ; 
For incense we will offer up 
Our prayers and praises unto Thee ; 
And bring for gold each pious deed 
Which doth from saving grace proceed. 

And as those wise men never went 
To visit Herod any more ; 
So, finding Thee, we will repent 
Our courses followed heretofore ; 
And that we homeward may retire 
The way by Thee we will inquire. 

Geoege Withee. 



CHEIST'S MESSAGE. 

Haez the glad sound — the Saviour comes ! 

The Saviour promised long ! 
Let every heart prepare a throne, 

And every voice a song. 

On Him the spirit, largely poured. 

Exerts its sacred fire ; 
Wisdom and might, and zeal and love, 

His holy breast inspire. 

He comes the prisoners to release, 

In Satan's bondage held ; 
The gates of brass before Him burst. 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes from thickest films of vice 

To clear the mental ray. 
And on the eyeballs of the blind 

To pour celestial day. 

He comes the broken heart to bind, 

The bleeding soul to cure. 
And with the treasures of His grace 

To enrich the humble poor. 



728 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



His silver trumpets publish loud 
The jubilee of the Lord ; 

Our debts are all remitted now, 
Our heritage restored. 



Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace, 
Thy welcome shall proclaim ; 

And heaven's eternal arches ring 
With Thy beloved name ! 

Philip Doddeibge. 



LINES 



ON THE CELEBEATED PICTUEE BY LEONAEDO DA 
VIXCI, CALLED THE VIEGm OF THE BOOKS. 

While young John runs to greet 

The greater infant's feet, 

The mother standing by, with trembling 

passion 
Of devout admiration. 
Beholds the engaging mystic play, and 

pretty adoration ; 
Kor knows as yet the full event 
Of those so low beginnings 
From whence we date our winnings. 
But wonders at the intent 
Of those new rites, and what that strange 

child-worship meant. 
But at her side 
An angel doth abide, 
With such a perfect joy 
As no dim doubts alloy — 
An intuition, 
A glory, an amenity. 
Passing the dark condition 
Of blind humanity, 
As if he surely knew 
All the blest wonders should ensue, 
Or he had lately left the upper sphere, 
And had read all the sovereign schemes 

and divine riddles there. 

Charles Lamb. 



THE REIGN OF CHKIST ON EARTH. 

Hail to the Lord's annointed — 

Great David's greater Son! 
Hail, in the time appointed, 

His reign on earth begun ! 
He comes to break oppression, 

To set the captive free. 
To take away transgression, 

And rule in equity. 

He comes with succor speedy 

To those who suffer wrong ; 
To help the poor and needy, 

And bid the weak be strong ; 
To give them songs for sighing. 

Their darkness turn to light, 
Whose souls, condemned and dying, 

Were precious in His sight. 

By such shall He be feared 

While sun and moon endure — 
Beloved, obeyed, revered; 

For He shall judge the poor. 
Through changing generations. 

With justice, mercy, truth. 
While stars maintain their stations 

Or moons renew their youth. 

He shall come down like showers 

Upon the fruitful earth, 
And love, joy, hope, like flowers. 

Spring in His path to birth ; 
Before Him, on the mountains. 

Shall Peace, the herald, go, 
And Righteousness, in fountains. 

From hill to valley flow. 

Arabia's desert-ranger 

To Him shall bow the knee, 
The Ethiopian stranger 

His glory come to see ; 
With offerings of devotion 

Ships from the isles shall meet, 
To poiir the wealth of ocean 

In tribute at His feet. 

Kings shall fall down before Him, 
And gold and incense bring ; 

AU nations shall adore Him, 
His praise all people sing ; 



GETHSEMANE. 



729 



For He shall have dominion 

O'er river, sea, and shore. 
Far as the eagle's pinion 

Or dove's light wing can soar. 

For Him shall prayer unceasing, 

And daily vows, ascend — 
His kingdom still increasing, 

A kingdom without end ; 
The mountain-dews shall nourish 

A seed in weakness sown. 
Whose fruit shall spread and flourish, 

And shake like Lebanon. 

O'er every foe victorious, 

He on His throne shall rest, 
From age to age more glorious, 

All-blessing and all-blest ; 
The tide of time shaU never 

His covenant remove ; 
His name shall stand for ever ; 

That name to us is — Love. 

James Montgomeet. 



PASSIOIT SUNDAY. 

The royal banners forward go ; 
The cross shines forth in mystic glow ; 
Where He in flesh, our flesh who made, 
Our sentence bore, our ransom paid — 

Where deep for us the spear was dyed. 
Life's torrent rushing from His side. 
To wash us in that precious flood 
Where mingled water flowed and blood. 

Fulfilled is all that David told 

In true prophetic song of old : 

Amidst the nations, God, saith he, 

Hath reigned and triumphed from the tree. 

O tree of beauty, tree of light ! 
O tree with royal purple dight ! 
Elect on whose triumphal breast 
Those holy limbs should find theu' rest ! 

• 
On whose dear arms, so widely flung. 
The weight of this world's ransom hung — 
The price of human kind to pay, 
And spoil the spoiler of his prey ! 



To Thee, eternal Three in One, 
Let homage meet by all be done, 
Whom by the cross Thou dost restore. 
Preserve and govern evermore. Amen. 

Yenantixjs Foktunatus (Latin), 
Anonymous Translation. 



GETHSEMANE. 

Jesus, while He dwelt below, 

As divine historians say, 
To a place would often go — 

Near to Kedron's brook it lay ; 
In this place He loved to be, 
And 'twas named Gethsemane. 

'T was a garden, as we read. 

At the foot of Olivet- 
Low, and proper to be made 

The Eedeemer's lone retreat ; 
When from noise he would be free, 
Then He sought Gethsemane. 

Thither, by their Master brought. 
His disciples likewise came ; 

There the heavenly truths He taught 
Often set their hearts on flame ; 

Therefore they, as well as He, 

Visited Gethsemane. 

Oft conversing here they sat. 

Or might join with Christ in prayer ; 
! what blest devotion that, 

When the Lord Himself is there ! 
All things thus did there agree 
To endear Gethsemane. 

Full of love to man's lost race. 
On the conflict much He thought ; 

This He knew the destined place, 
And He loved the sacred spot ; 

Therefore Jesus chose to be 

Often in Gethsemane. 

Came at length the dreadful night ; 

Yengeance, with its iron rod, 
Stood, and with collected might 

Bruised the harmless Lamb of God ; 
See, my soul, thy Saviour see. 
Prostrate in Gethsemane ! 



ISO 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



View Him in that olive press, 

Wrung with anguish, whelmed with 
blood — 
Hear Him pray in His distress. 

With strong cries and tears, to God : 
Then reflect Avhat sin must be, 
Gazing on Gethsemane. 

Gloomy garden, on thy beds, 
Washed by Kedron's water-pool, 

Grow most rank and bitter weeds ! 
Think on these, my soul, my soul ! 

Would'st thou sin's dominion see — 

Call to mind Gethsemane. 

Eden, from each flowery bed. 

Did for man short sweetness breathe ; 

Soon, by Satan's counsel led, 
Man wrought sin, and sin wrought death ; 

But of Life the healing Tree 

Grows in rich Gethsemane. 

Hither, Lord, Thou didst resort 
Ofttimes with Thy little train ; 

Here wouldst keep Thy private court — 
O ! confer that grace again ; 

Lord, resort with worthless me. 

Oft-times to Gethsemane. 

True, I can't deserve to share 

In a favor so divine ; 
But since sin first fixed Thee there 

None have greater sins than mine ; 
And to this my woeful plea 
Witness thou, Gethsemane ! 

Sins against a holy God, 
Sins against His righteous laws, 

Sins against His love. His blood. 
Sins against His name and cause. 

Sins immense as is the sea — 

Hide me, Gethsemane ! 

Saviour, all the stone remove 
From my flinty, frozen heart ! 

Thaw it with the beams of love. 
Pierce it with Thy mercy's dart ! 

Wound the heart that wounded Thee ! 

Break it, in Gethsemane ! 

Joseph Haet. 



GETHSEMANE. 

Go to dark Gethsemane, 

Ye that feel the tempter's power; 
Your Eedeemer's conflict see. 

Watch with Him one bitter hour ; 
Turn not from His griefs away — 
Learn of Jesus Christ to pray ! 

Follow to the judgment-hall — 
"View the Lord of Life arraigned ! 

O the wormwood and the gall ! 
O the pangs His soul sustained ! 

Shun not suffering, shame, or loss — 

Learn of Him to bear the cross ! 

Calvary's mournful mountain climb ; 

There, adoring at His feet, 
Mark that miracle of time — 

God's own sacrifice complete ! 
" It is finished ! " — ^hear the cry — 
Learn of Jesus Christ to die. 

Early hasten to the tomb 

Where they laid His breathless clay- 
All is solitude and gloom ; 

Who hath taken Him away ? 
Christ is risen! — He meets our eyes! 
Saviour, teach us so to rise. 

Jaues Montgomeey. 



CHRIST DYING, RISING, AND REIGN 
ING. 

He dies ! the heavenly Lover dies I 
The tidings strike a doleful sound 

On my poor heart-strings ; deep he lies 
In the cold caverns of the ground. 

Come, saints, and drop a tear or two 
On the dear bosom of your God ! 

He shed a thousand drops for you, 
A thousand drops of richer blood. 

Here 's love and grief beyond degree — 
The Lord of glory dies for men ! 

But, lo ! what sudden joys I see ! 
Jesus, the dead, revives again ! 



EASTER. 731 


The rising God forsakes the tomb — 


On His word your burden cast, 


Up to His Father's court he flies ; 


On His love your thoughts employ ; 


Cherubic legions, guard Him home, 


Weeping for a while may last, 


And shout Him welcome to the skies ! 


But the morning brings the joy. 




John Nbwton. 


Break off your tears, ye saints, and tell 




How high our great Deliverer reigns — 


• 


Sing how He spoiled the hosts of hell, 




And led the monster, death, in chains ! 


EASTER. 


Say, " Live for ever, wondrous King — 


Rise, heart! thy Lord is risen. Sing His 


Born to redeem, and strong to save ! " 


praise 


Then ask the monster, "Where 's his sting? 


Without delays 


And where 's thy victory, boasting 


Who takes thee by the hand, that thou like- 


grave ? " 


wise 


IsAA.0 "Watts. 


With Him may 'st rise — 




That, as His death calcined thee to dust, 
His life may make thee gold, and much more 






just. 


WEEPING MART. 






Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part 


Maet to her Saviour's tomb 


With all thy art ! 


Hasted at the early dawn ; 


The crosse taught all wood to resound His name 


Spice she brought, and rich perfume — 


Who bore the same ; 


But the Lord she loved was gone. 


His stretched sinews taught all strings what 


For a while she weeping stood, 


key 


Struck with sorrow and surprise, 


Is best to celebrate this most high day. 


Shedding tears, a plenteous flood — 




For her heart supplied her eyes. 


Consort both harp and lute, and twist a song 


Jesus, who is always near, 


Pleasant and long ! 


Though too often unperceived, 


Or since all music is but three parts vied 


Comes His drooping child to cheer. 


And multiplied. 


Kindly asking why she grieved. 


let Thy blessed Spirit bear a part. 


Though at first she knew Him not — 


And make up our defects with His sweet art. 


When He called her by her name. 




Then her griefs were all forgot. 


I got me flowers to strew Thy way — 


For she found He was the same. 


I got me boughs off many a tree ; 




But thou Avast up by break of day, 


Grief and sighing quickly fled 


And broughtst thy sweets along with thee. 


When, she heard His welcome voice ; 




Just before she thought Him dead, 
Now He bids her heart rejoice. 

What a change His word can make, 
Turning darkness into day ! 


The sun arising in the east. 

Though he give light, and th' east perfume, 

If they should offer to contest 


You who weep for Jesus' sake, 


With Thy arising, they presume. 


He will wipe your tears away. 






Can there be any day but this, 


He who came to comfort her 


Though many suns to shine endeavour ? 


When she thought her all was lost, 


We count three hundred, but we miss — 


Will for your relief appear, 


There is but one, and that one ever. 


Though you now are tempest-tossed. 


Geoege Herbert. 



732 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 




I have sinned more than she 


AN EASTER HYMK 


Who, learning where to meet with Thee, 




And bringing myrrh the highest priced. 


Awake, thou wintry earth — 


Anointed bravely, from her knee. 


Fling off thy sadness ! 


Thy blessed feet accordingly — 


Fair vernal flowers, laugh forth 


My God, my Lord, my Christ ! 


Your ancient gladness ! • 


As Thou saidest not "Depart," 


Christ is risen ! 


To that suppliant from her heart. 




Scorn me not, Word, that art 


"Wave, woods, your blossoms all — 


The gentlest one of all words said! 


Grim death is dead ! 


But give Thy feet to me instead, 


Ye weeping funeral trees, 


That tenderly I may them kiss. 


Lift up your head I 


And clasp them close, and never miss. 


Christ is risen ! 


With over-dropping tears, as free 




And precious as that myrrh could be, 


Come, see ! the graves are green ; 


T' anoint them bravely from my knee ! 


It is light ; let 's go 




Where our loved ones rest 


Wash me with thy tears ! draw nigh me, 


In hope below ! 


That their salt may purify me ! 


Christ is risen ! 


Thou remit my sins who knowest 




AU the sinning, to the lowest — 


All is fresh and new, 


Knowest all my wounds, and seest 


Full of spring and light ; 


AU the stripes Tliyself decreest ; 


Wintry heart, why wear'st the hue 


Yea, but knowest all my faith — 


Of sleep and night ? 


Seest all my force to death, — 


Christ is risen ! 


Hearest all my wailings low 




That mine evil should be so ! 


Leave thy cares beneath. 


Nothing hidden but appears 


Leave thy worldly love ! 


In Thy knowledge, Divine, 


Begin the better life 


Creator, Saviour mine ! — 


With God above ! 


Not a drop of falling tears. 


Christ is risen ! 


Not a breath of inward moan, 


Thomas BLACKBimN. 


Not a heart-beat — which is gone ! 


^ 


St. Joannes Damascentts. (Greek.) 




Translation of E. B. Browning. 


HYMN. 
Feom my lips in their defilement, 






From my heart in its beguilement. 
From my tongue which speaks not fair, 


MY GOD, I LOVE THEE. 


From my soul stained every where — 
my Jesus, take my prayer ! 


My God, I love Thee ! not because 
I hope for heaven thereby ; 




Nor because those who love Thee not 


Spurn me not, for all it says, — 
Not for words, and not for ways, — 


Must burn eternally. 


Not for shamelessness endued ! 




Make me brave to speak my mood. 


Thou, my Jesus, Thou didst me 


my Jesus, as I would ! 


Upon the cross embrace ! 


Or teach me, which I rather seek. 


For me didst bear the nails and spear. 


What to do and what to speak. 


And manifold disgrace. 



THE CALL. 



733 



And griefs and torments numberless, 

And sweat of agony, 
Yea, death itself— and all for one 

That was Thine enemy. 

Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ, 
Should I not love Thee well? 

Not for the hope of winning heaven, ■ 
Nor of escaping hell ! 

Not with the hope of gaining aught, 

Not seeking a reward ; 
But as Thyself hast loved me, 

everlasting Lord ! 

E'en so I love Thee, and will love, 

And in Thy praise will sing — 
Solely because thou art my God, 
And my eternal King. 

St. Fbancis Xaviee. (Latin.) 
Translation of Edwakd Caswell. 



THE STKANGER AND HIS FRIEND. 

A POOR wayfaring man of grief 

Hath often crossed me on my way, 
Who sued so humbly for relief 

That I could never answer " Nay." 
I had not power to ask His name. 
Whither He went, or whence He came ; 
Yet there was something in His eye 
That won my love, — I knew not why. 

Once, when my scanty meal was spread. 
He entered. Not a word He spake. 

Just perishing for want of bread, 
I gave Him all ; He blessed it, brake, 

And ate ; — ^but gave me part again. 

Mine was an angel's portion then ; 

For while I fed with eager haste. 

That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied Him where a fountain burst 

Clear from the rock ; His strength was 
gone; 

The heedless water mocked His thirst ; 
He heard it, saw it hurrying on. 



I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
Thrice from the stream He drained my cup, 
Dipped, and returned it running o'er ; — 
I drank and never thirsted more. 

'Twas night;, the floods were out, — it blew 

A winter hurricane aloof; 
I heard His voice abroad, and flew 

To bid Him welcome to my roof; 
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest — 
Laid Him on my own couch to rest ; 
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed 
In Eden's garden while I dreamed. 

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death, 

I found Him by the highway side ; 
I roused His pulse, brought back His breath, 

Revived His spirit, and supplied 
Wine, oil, refreshment ; He was healed. 
I had, myself, a wound concealed — 
But from that hour forgot the smart, 
And peace bound up my broken heart. 

In prison I saw Him next, condemned 
To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 

The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, 

And honored Him midst shame and scorn. 

My friendship's utmost zeal to try, 

He asked if I for Him would die ; 

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill. 

But the free spirit cried, "I will." 

Then in a moment, to my view. 
The stranger darted from disguise ; 

The tokens in His hands I knew — 
My Saviour stood before mine eyes. 

He spake ; and my poor name he named — 

" Of Me thou hast not been ashamed ; 

These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 

Fear not ! thou didst them unto Me." 

James Montgomery. 



THE CALL. 

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life I- 
Such a Way as gives us breath ; 
Such a Truth as ends all strife ; 
Such a Life as killeth death. 



734 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength ! — 


This breathing would with gains, by sweet- 


Such a Light as shows a feast ; 


ning me, 


Such a Feast as mends in length ; 


(As sweet things traffick when they meet) 


Such a Strength as makes His guest. 


Return to Thee ; 




And so this new commerce and sweet 


Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart ! 


Should all my life employ, and busy me. 

Geoegb Heebeet. 


Such a Joy as none can move ; 




Such a Love as none can part ; 




Such a Heart as joys in love. 




Geoegb Heebeet. 


TH h\ FEAST. 
COME away ! 


* 




Make no delay — 


THK ODOR. 


Come while my heart is clean and steady I 




While faith and grace 


How sweetly doth My Master sound! — My 


Adorn the place, 


Master ! 


Making dust and ashes ready ! 


As ambergris leaves a rich scent 
Unto the taster, 


'No bliss here lent 


So do these words a sweet content. 
An oriental fragrancy — ^My Ma.ster ! 


Is permanent — 
Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit ; 
Short sips and sights 




Endear delights ; 


With these all day I do perfume my mind, 


Who seeks for more he would inherit. 


My mind even thrust into them both — 

That I might find 
What cordials make this curious broth, 
This broth of smells, that feeds and fats my 


Come then, true bread, 
Quickning the dead, 
Whose eater shall not, cannot dye ! 
Come, antedate 


mind. 


On me that state 




Which brings poor dust the victory ! — 


My Master, shall I speak ? that to Thee 
My servant were a little so 

As flesh may be ! 
That these two words might creep and 


Aye, victory! 
Which from Thine eye 
Breaks as the day doth from the east. 
When the spilt dew, 


grow 


Like tears, doth shew 


To some degree of spiciness to Thee ! 


The sad world wept to be releast. 


Then should the pomander, which was before 


Spring up, wine ! 
And springing shine 


A speaking sweet, mend by reflection. 


With some glad message from His heart, 


And tell me more ; 
For pardon of my imperfection 


Who did, when slain. 
These means ordain 


Would warm and work it sweeter than before. 


For me to have in Him a part ! — 




Such a sure part 


For when My Master, which alone is sweet, 


In His blest heart, 


And ev'n in my unworthiness pleasing. 


The well where living waters spring. 


Shall call and meet 


That, with it fed, 


My servant, as Thee not displeasing. 


Poor dust, though dead. 


That call is but the breathing of the sweet. 


Shall rise again, and live, and sing. 



SONNETS. 



735 



O drink and bread, 
"Whicli strikes death dead, 
The food of man's immortal being 1 
Under veils here 
^ Thou art my cheer, 

Present and sure without my seeing. 

How dost Thou fly, 

And search and pry 
Through all my parts, and, like a quick 

And knowing lamp. 

Hunt out each damp 
Whose shadow makes me sad or sick ! 

O what high joys! 

The turtle's voice 
And songs I hear ! O quickning showers 

Of my Lord's blood, 

You make rocks bud. 
And crown dry hills with wells and flowers ! 

For this true ease. 

This healing peace, 
For this brief taste of living glory, 

My soul and all, 

Kneel down and fall. 
And sing His sad victorious story ! 

O thorny crown. 

More soft than down ! 
O painful cross, my bed of rest ! 

spear, the key 

Opening the way ! 
Thy worst state my only best ! 

all Thy griefs 

Are my reliefs, 
As all my sins Thy sorrows were ! 

And what can I 

To this reply? 
What, O God ! but a silent tear ? 

Some toil and sow 

That wealth may flow, 
And dress this earth for next year's meat : 

But let me heed 

Why thou didsted, 
And what in the next world to eat. 

Henxy Vattghak. 



COMPLAINING. 

Do not beguile my heart, 
Because Thou art 
Mypower and wisdom! Put me not to shame, 
Because I am 
Thy clay that sweeps, Thy dust that calls I 

Thou art the Lord of Glory — 
The deed and story 
Are both Thy due ; but I a silly fly, 
That live or die 
According as the weather falls. 

Art Thou aU justice, Lord ? 
Shows not Thy word 
More attributes ? Am I all throat or eye. 
To weep or cry ? 
Have I no parts but those of grief? 

Let not Thy wrathful power 
AfQict my hour. 
My inch of life ; or let Thy gracious power 
Contract my hour, 
That I may climb and find relief. 

Geokge Hebbebt. 



SONNETS. 

How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine ! 
How dark 's the glory of the earth to Thine ! 
Thy veiled eyes outshine heaven's greater light, 
Unconquered by the shady cloud of night ; 
Thy curious tresses dangle, all unbound, 
With unaffected order to the ground ; 
How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine ! 
How dark 's the glory of the earth to Thine ! 

NoE myrrh, nor cassia, nor the choice per- 
fumes 
Of unctions nard, or aromatic fumes 
Of hot Arabia, do enrich the air 
With more delicious sweetness than the fair 
Reports that crown the merits of Thy Name 
With heavenly laurels of eternal fame, 
Which makes the virgins fix their eyes upon 

Thee, 
And all that view Thee are enamored on Thee. 



T36 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Who ever smelt the breath of mornmg flow- 
ers 

New sweetened with the dash of twihght 
showers, 

Of pounded amber, or the flowing thyme, 

Or purple violets in their proudest prime, 

Or swelling clusters from the cypress tree ? 

So sweet 's my love ; aye, far more sweet is 
He— 

So fair, so sweet, that Heaven's bright eye is 
dim, 

And flowers have no scent, compared with 

Him. 

Feancis Qitakles. 



THE FLOWER. 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
Are thy returns! e'en as the flowers in 
Spring — 
To which, besides their own demean. 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
Grief melts away 
Like snow in May, 
As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my shrivelled 
heart 
Could have recovered greenness ? It was gone 

Quite under ground; as flowers depart 
To see their mother-root when they have 
blown. 

Where they together. 
All the hard weather. 
Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 

These are Thy wonders. Lord of power: 
Killing and quickning, bringing down to heU 

And up to heaven in an hour, 
Making a chiming of a passing-beU. 
We say amiss, 
This or that is — 
Thy word is all, if we could spell. 

O that I once past changing were — 
East in Thy paradise, where no flower can 
wither ! 
Many a Spring I shoot up fair, 
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning 
thither ; 



Nor doth my flower 
Want a spring-shower. 
My sins and I joining together. 

But, while I grow in a straight line, ^ 
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine 
own. 
Thy anger comes, and I decline ; 
What frost to that? what pole is not the 
zone 

Where all things burn, 
When Thou dost turn 
And the least frown of Thine is shown ? 

And now in age I bud again — 
After so many deaths I live and write ; 

I once more smell the dew and rain, 
And relish versing ; O my only Light, 
It cannot be 
That I am he 
On whom Thy tempests fell aU night ! 

These are Thy wonders. Lord of love— 
To make us see we are but flowers that 
glide ; 
Which when we once can find and 
prove. 
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 
Who would be more. 
Swelling through store. 
Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 

Geoege Heebeet. 



A PRAYER LHONG AKD DYING. 

Rook of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee ! 
Let the water and the blood. 
From Thy riven side which flowed, 
Be of sin the double cure — 
Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labors of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 
Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears for ever flow, 
All for sin could not atone — 
Thou must save, and Thou alone. 



COME TJNTO ME. 



737 



Nothing in my hand I bring — 
Simply to Thy cross I chng ; 
Naked come to Thee for dress — 
Helpless look to Thee for grace ; 
Eoiil, I to the fountain fly — 
"Wash me, Saviour, or I die. 

While I draw this fleeting breath, • 
When my eye-strings break in death, 
When I soar to worlds unknown. 
See Thee on Thy judgment throne, 
Eock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee ! 

AtrGtrsTTJS MoNTAaxrE Toplady. 



JESUS. 



None upon earth I desire beside Thee. 

Psalm Ixxiii. 25. 

How tedious and tasteless the hours 

When Jesus no longer I see ! 

Sweet prospects, sweet birds, and sweet 

flowers. 
Have lost all their sweetness with me ; 
The midsummer sun shines but dim, 
The fields strive in vain to look gay ; 
But when I am happy in Him, 
December's as pleasant as May. 

His name yields the richest perfume, 
And sweeter than music His voice ; 
His presence disperses my gloom. 
And makes all within me rejoice ; 
I should, were He always thus nigh, 
Have nothing to wish or to fear ; 
No mortal so happy as I — 
My Summer would last all the year. 

Content with beholding His face. 
My all to His pleasure resigned, 
No changes of season or place 
Would make any change in my mind ; 
While blest with a sense of His love 
A palace a toy would appear; 
And prisons would palaces prove. 
If Jesus Avoiild dwell with me there. 
47 



Dear Lord, if indeed I am Thine, 
If Thou art my sun and my song — 
Say, why do I languish and pine, 
And why are my Winters so long ? 
O drive these dark clouds from my sky, 
Thy soul-cheering presence restore ; 
Or take me unto Thee on high, 
Where Winter and clouds are no more. 

John Newton. 



THE EXAMPLE OF CHRIST. 

My dear Redeemer, and my God, 
I read my duty in Thy word ; 
But in Thy life the law appears 
Drawn out in living characters. 

Such was Thy truth, and such Thy zeal, 
Such deference to Thy Father's will, 
Such love, and meekness so divine, 
I would transcribe, and make them mine. 

Cold mountains, and the midnight air, 
Witnessed the fervor of Thy prayer ; 
The desert Thy temptations knew— 
Thy conflict, and Thy victory too. 

Be Thou my pattern ; make me bear 
More of Thy gracious image here ; 
Then God, the Judge, shall own my name 
Amongst the followers of the Lamb. 

Isaac Watts. 



" COME UNTO ME." 

" Come unto me all j^e that are weary and heavy ladon, 
and I will give you rest." 

Come, said Jesus' sacred voice — 
Come and make my paths your choice ! 
I will guide you to your home — 
Weary pilgrim, hither come ! 

Thou who, houseless, sole, forlorn. 
Long hast borne the proud world's scorn. 
Long hast roamed the barren waste, 
Weary pilgrim, hither haste 1 



738 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Ye who, tossed on beds of pain, 
Seek for ease, but seek in vain — 
Ye whose swollen and sleepless eyes 
Watch to see the morning rise — 

Ye by fiercer anguish torn, 

In strong remorse for guilt who mourn, 

Here repose your heavy care — 

A wounded spirit who can bear! 

Sinner, come ! for here is found 
Balm that flows from every wound — 
Peace, that ever shall endure — 
Eest eternal, sacred, sure. 

Anna L^titia Baebaitld. 



THE WATCHMAN'S EEPOET. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

What its signs of promise are ! 
Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height 

See that glory-beaming star ! 
Watchman, does its beauteous ray 

Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 
Traveller, yes ; it brings the day — 

Promised day of Israel. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

Higher yet that Star ascends ! 
Traveller, blessedness and light. 

Peace and truth, its course portends. 
Watchman, will its beams alone 

Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 
Traveller, ages are its own — 

See, it bursts o'er all the earth. 

Watchman, tell us of the night, 

For the morning seems to dawn. 
Traveller, darkness takes its flight — 

Doubt and terror are withdrawn. 
Watchman, let thy wandering cease ; 

Hie thee to thy quiet home. 
Traveller, lo ! the Prince of Peace — 

Lo ! the Son of God is come. 

John Bowbino. 



"JESUS, LOYEK OF MY SOUL." 

Jesus, lover of my soul. 

Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
While the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high ! 
Hide me, my Saviour, hide, 

Till the storm of life is past : 
Safe into Thy haven guide — 

receive my soul at last ! 

Other refuge have I none — 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone — 

Still support and comfort me. 
All my trust on Thee is stayed. 

All my help from Thee I bring : 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of Thy wing. 

Wilt Thou not regard my call ? 
Wilt Thou not regard my prayer ? 

Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall — 
Lo ! on Thee I cast my care ; 

Eeach me out Thy gracious hand, 
While I of Thy strength receive ! 

Hoping against hope I stand- 
Dying, and behold I live. 

Thou, O Christ, art all I want — 
More than all in Thee I find ; 

Eaise the fallen, cheer the faint. 
Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 

Just and holy is Thy name — 

1 am all unrighteousness ; 
False, and full of sin I am : — 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 

Plenteous grace with Thee is found, — 

Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound — 

Make and keep me pure within. 
Thou of life the fountain art — 

Freely let me take of Thee ; 
Spring Thou up within my heart — 

Else to all eternity. 

Charles Webley. 



ETERNAL BEAM OF LIGHT DIVINE. 



JESUS, MY STKENGTH, MY HOPE." 

Jesus, my strength, my hope, 

On Thee I cast my care — 
With humble confidence look up, 

And know Thou hear'st my prayer. 
Give me on Thee to wait 

Till I can all things do — 
On The€, almighty to create, 

Almighty to renew. 



I want a sober mind, 

A self-renouncing will 
That tramples down, and casts behind. 

The baits of pleasing ill — 
A soul inured to pain. 

To hardship, grief, and loss — 
Bold to take up, firm to sustain. 

The consecrated cross. 



I want a godly fear, 

A quick discerning eye, 
That looks to Thee when sin is near, 

And sees the tempter fly — 
A spirit still prepared, 

And armed with jealous care — 
Eorever standing on its guard. 

And watching unto prayer. 



I want a heart to pray, — 

To pray, and never cease ; 
Never to murmur at Thy stay. 

Or vv'ish my sufferings less. 
This blessing above all. 

Always to pray, I want, — 
Out of the deep on Thee to call. 

And never, never faint. 

I want a true regard — 

A single, steady aim 
(Unmoved by threatening or reward,) 

To Thee and Thy great name — 
A jealous, just concern 

For Thine immortal praise — 
A pure desire tliat all may learn 

And glorify Thy grace. 



I rest upon Thy word, — 

The promise is for me ; 
My succor and salvation, Lord, 

Shall surely come from Thee ; 
But let me still abide, 

Nor from my hope remove. 
Till Thou my patient spirit guide 

Into Thy perfect love. 

Chaeles Wesley. 



"ETERNAL BEAM OF LIGHT DIVINE." 

Eteexal beam of Light divine, 

Fountain of unexhausted love. 
In whom the Father's glories shine 

Through earth beneath, and heaven above ! 

Jesus, the weary wanderer's rest, 
Give me Thy easy yoke to bear ; 

With steadfast patience arm my breast, 
With spotless love and lowly fear. 

Thankful I take the cup from Thee, 
Prepared and mingled by Thy skill — 

Though bitter to the taste it be. 
Powerful the wounded soul to heal. 



Be thou, O Eock of Ages, nigh ! 

So shall each murmuring thought be gone ; 
And grief, and fear, and care shall fly 

As clouds before the mid-day sun. 

Speak to my warring passions, — ^Peace ! 

Say to my trembling heart, — Be still ! 
Thy power my strength and fortress is, 

For aU things serve Thy sovereign will. 

O Death! where is thy sting? Where now 

Thy boasted victory, O Grave ? 
Who shall contend with God ? or who 

Can hurt whom God delights to save ? 

Chaeles Wesley. 



740 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 




Still let Thy love point out my way ! 


LIVIN^G BY CHRIST. 


How wondrous things Thy love hath 




wrought ! 


Jesfs, Thy boundless love to me 


Still lead me, lest I go astray — 


No thouglit can reach, no tongue declare ; 


Direct my word, inspire my thought ; 


knit my thankful heart to Thee, 


And if I fall, soon may I hear 


And reign without a rival there. 


Thy voice, and know that love is near. 


Thine wholly. Thine alone, I am — 




Be Thou alone my constant flame. 


In suffering be Thy love my peace ; 




In weakness be Thy love my power ; 


grant that nothing in my soul 


And when the storms of life shall cease, 


May dwell but Thy pure love alone ; 


Jesus, in that important hour. 


may Thy love possess me whole — 


In death, as life, be Thou my guide, 


My joy, my treasure, and my crown ! 


And save me, who for me hast died. 


Strange flames far from my heart remove — 


Pattl Geehaed. (German.) 


My every act, word, thought, be love. 


Translation of John Wesley. 


Love, how cheering is Thy ray ! 


, 


All pain before Thy presence flies ; 




Care, anguish, sorrow, melt away 




"Where'er Thy healing beams arise ; 


"FRIEND OF ALL." 


Jesu, nothing may I see, 
Nothing desire or seek, but Thee ! 


Feiend of aU who seek Thy favor, 
Us defend 




To the end — 


Unwearied may I this pursue — 


Be our utmost Saviour ! 


Dauntless, to the high prize aspire ; 




Hourly within my soul renew 

This holy flame, this heavenly fire ; 


Us, who join on earth to adore Thee, 
Guard and love, 


And, day and night, be all my care 


Till above 


To guard the sacred treasure there. 


Both appear before Thee ! 


My- Saviour, Thou Thy love to me 

In shame, in want, in pain, hast showed ; 
For me, on the accursed tree. 


Fix on Thee our whole afteotion — 
Love divine. 


Thou pouredst forth Thy guiltless blood ; 
Thy wounds upon my heart impress, 


Keep us Thine, 
Safe in Thy protection ! 


Nor aught shall the loved stamp efface. 


Christ, of all our conversation 


More hard than marble is my heart, 


Be the scope — 


And foul with sins of deepest stain ; 


Lift us up 


But Thou the mighty Saviour art. 


To Thy full salvation ! 


Nor flowed Thy cleansing blood in vain ; 




Ah, soften, melt this rock, and may 


Bring us every moment nearer ; 


Thy blood wash all these stains away ! 


Fairer rise 




In our eyes — 


that I, as a little child, 


Dearer still, and dearer ! 


May follow Thee, and never rest 




Till sweetly Thou hast breathed Thy mild 


Infinitely dear and precious, 


And lowly mind into my breast ! 


With Thy love 


Nor ever may we parted be 


From above 


Till I become one spirit with Thee. 


Evermore refresh us ' 



HYMN. '741 


Strengthened by the cordial blessing, 


By Thine hour of dire despair ; 


Let us haste 


By Thine agony of prayer ; 


To the feast, 


By the cross, the wail, the thorn. 


Feast of joys unceasing ! 


Piercing spear, and torturing scorn ; 




By the gloom that veiled the skies 


Perfect let us walk before Thee— 


O'er the dreadful sacrifice — 


Walk in white 


Listen to our humble cry : 


To the sight 


Hear our solemn Litany I 


Of Thy heavenly glory ! 




Both with calm impatience press on 


By Thy deep expiring groan ; 
By the sad sepulchral stone ; 


To the prize — 
Scale the skies. 


By the vault whose dark abode 
Held in vain the rising God ! 


Take entire possession — 


! from earth to heaven restored. 




Mighty, reascended Lord — 


Drink of Life's exhaustless river — 


Listen, listen to the cry 


Take of Thee 


7 J 

Of our solemn Litany ! 


Life'-s fair tree- 


StB EOBEET GeANT. 


Eat, and live for ever ! 




Chaeles "Wesley. 


— • — 




HYMN 


LITA]!TY. 


FOE SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTEE TEINITT. 


Saviour, when in dust to Thee 


When our heads are bowed with woe. 


Low we bow the adoring knee ; 


When our bitter tears o'erflow. 


When, repentant, to the skies 


When we mourn the lost, the dear : 


Scarce we lift our weeping eyes — 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 


by all Thy pains and woe 




Suffered once for man below. 




Bending from Thy throne on high, 


Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 


Hear our solemn Litany ! 


Thou our mortal griefs hast borne. 




Thou hast shed the human tear : 


By Thy helpless infant years ; 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 


By Thy life of want and tears ; 




By Thy days of sore distress. 


When the sullen death-beU tolls 


In the savage wilderness ; 


For our own departed souls — 


By the dread, mysterious hour 


^ When our final doom is near, Je ► 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! ^ * 


Of the insulting tempter's power — 


Turn, turn, a favoring eye — 




Hear our solemn Litany ! 






Thou hast bowed the dying head, 


By the sacred griefs that wept 


Thou the blood of life hast shed, 


O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
By the boding tears that flowed 


Thou hast filled a mortal bier : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 


Over Salem's loved abode ; 




By the anguished sigh that told 


When the heart is sad within 


Treachery lurked within the fold — 


With the thought of all its sin. 


From Thy seat above the sky 


When the spirit shrinks with fear, 


Hear our solemn Litany ! 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 



742 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Thon the shame, the grief hast known ; 


Like the gem-bedizened baby 


Though the sins were not Thine own, 


Which, at the Twelfth-day noon, 


Thou hast deigned their load to bear : 


They show from the Ara Coeli's steps 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 


To a merry dancing tune. 


Henby Habx Milman. 






I ask of Thee no wonders — 




No changing white or red ; 
I dream not Thou art living, 






I love and prize Thee dead. 


THE DEAD OHKIST. 


That salutary deadness 




I seek through want and pain, 


Take the dead Christ to my chamber — 


From which God's own high power can bid 


The Christ I brought from Eome ; 


Our virtue rise again. 


Over all the tossing ocean, 


JtTLiA "Wakd Howe. 


He has reached His western home : 




Bear Him as in procession, 




And lay Him solemnly 




Where, through weary night and morning, 


SONNET. 


He shall bear me company. 






In the desert of the Holy T-and I strayed. 


The name I bear is other 


Where Christ once lived, but seems to live 


Than that I bore by birth ; 


no more ; 


And I 've given life to children 


In Lebanon my lonely home I made ; 


Who '11 grow and dwell on earth ; 


I heard the wind among the cedars roar. 


But the time comes swiftly towards me — 


And saw far off the Dead Sea's solemn shore — 


Nor do I bid it stay — 


But 't is a dreary wilderness, I said, 


When the dead Christ will be more to me 


Since the prophetic spirit hence has sped. 


Than all I hold to-day. 


Then from the convent in the vale I heard, 




Slow chanted forth, the everlasting Word — 


Lay the dead Christ beside me — 


Saying "I am He that liveth, and was dead ; 


0, press Him on my heart ; 


And lo I am alive for evermore." 


I would hold Him long and painfully, 


Then forth upon my pilgrimage I fare, 


Till the weary tears should start 


Resolved to find and praise Him every where. 


Tin the divine contagion 


Anonymous. 


Heal me of self and sin, 




And the cold weight press wholly down 




The pulse that chokes within. 


A HYMN. 


Reproof and frost, they fret me ; 


Deop, drop, slow tears. 


Towards the free, the sunny lands, 


And bathe those beauteous feet 


From the chaos of existence, 


Which brought from Heaven 


I stretch these feeble hands — 


The news and Prince of Peace ! 


And, penitential, kneeling, 


Cease not, wet eyes, 


Pray God would not be wroth, 


His mercies to entreat ! ; 


Who gave not the strength of feeling 


To cry for vengeance 


And strength of labor both. 


Sin doth never cease ; 




In your deep floods 


Thou 'rt but a wooden carving. 


Drown all my faults and fears ; 


Defaced of worms, and old ; 


Nor let His eye 


Yet more to me Thou couldst not be 


See sin, but through my tears. 


Wert Thou all wrapt in gold 


Phineas Fletoheb. 



CHRISTMAS. 



•743 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing np to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars — 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign. 

In the solemn midnjght, 

Centuries ago. 

'T was in the calm and silent night ! 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 
His breast with thoughts of boundless 
sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 
A paltry province far away, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 

"Within that province far away 

"Went plodding home a weary boor ; 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 
Across his path. He ]>assed — for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought — 

The air how calm, and cold, and thin. 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago ! 

0, strange indifference ! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares; 
The earth was still — but knew not why 

The world was listening, unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever — 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now ! 



The night that erst no shame had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born, 
"The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

Alfred Dommett. 



CHRISTMAS. 

RixG out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old. 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfked Tennyson. 



744 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



ST. PETER'S DAY. 

Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved, 
"Watch by Thine own forgiven friend ! 

In sharpest perils faithful proved, 
Let his soul love Thee to the end. 



The prayer is heard — else why so deep 
His slumber on the eve of death ? 

And wherefore smiles he in his sleep, 
As one who drew celestial breath ? 



He loves and is beloved again — 
Can his soul choose but be at rest ? 

Sorrow hath fled away, and pain 
Dares not invade the guarded nest. 

He dearly loves, and not alone ; 

For his winged thoughts are soaring high 
Where never yet frail heart was known 

To breathe in vain affection's sigh. 

He loves and weeps ; but more than tears 
Have sealed Thy welcome and his love — 

One look lives in him, and endears 
Crosses and wrongs where'er he rove — 

That gracious chiding look, Thy call 
To win him to himself and Thee, 

Sweetening the sorrow of his fall 
"Which else were rued too bitterly ; 

Even through the veil of sleep it shines, 
The memory of that kindly glance ; — 

The angel, watching by, divines. 
And spares awhile his blissful trance. 

Or haply to his native lake 

His vision wafts him back, to talk 

With Jesus, ere his flight he take, 
As in that solemn evening walk, 

When to the bosom of his friend, 
The Shepherd, He whose name is Good, 

Did His dear lambs and sheep commend, 
Both bought and nourished with His blood ; 



Then laid on him th' inverted tree. 
Which, firm embraced with heart and arm, 

Might cast o'er hope and memory, 
O'er life and death, its awful charm. 

With brightening heart he bears it on, 
His passport through th' eternal gates. 

To his sweet home — so nearly won. 
He seems, as by the door he waits, 

The unexpre^ve notes to hear 
Of angel song and angel motion, 

Eising and falling on the ear 
Like waves in Joy's unbounded ocean. — 

His dream is changed — the tyrant's voice 
Calls to that last of glorious deeds — 

But as he rises to rejoice, 
Kot Herod, but an angel leads. 

He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright, 
Glancing around his prison room ; 

But 't is a gleam of heavenly light 
That fills up all the ample gloom. 

The flame, that in a few short years 
Deep through the chambers of the dead 

Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears, 
Is waving o'er his dungeon-bed. 

Touched, he upstarts — his chains unbind — 
Through darksome vault, up massy stair, 

His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind 
To freedom and cool, moonlight air. 

Then all himself, all joy and calm. 
Though for awhile his hand forego, 

Just as it touched, the martyr's palm, 
He turns him to his task below : 

The pastoral staff, the keys of heaven. 
To wield awhile in gray-haired might — 

Then from his cross to spring forgiven. 
And follow Jesus out of sight. 

John Keble. 



THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN. 



745 



THE EMIGEANTS IN BERMUDAS. 

Wheee the remote Bermudas ride 
In th' ocean's bosom, unespied — 
From a small boat, that rowed along, 
The list'ning winds received this song : 

What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels every thing, 
And sends the fowls to us in care, 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright. 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 
And throws the melons at our feet. 
But apples — ^plants of such a price 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars, chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon, He stores the land ; 
And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple, where to sound His name. 
O ! let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault ; 
Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay. 

Thus sa.ng they, in the English boat, 
A holy and a cheerful note ; 
And all the way, to guide their chime. 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andeew Mabtell, 



HYMN" OF THE HEBREW MAID. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came. 
Her father's God before her moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonished lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 
And Zion's daughters poured their lays. 

With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
No portents now our foes amaze — 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But, present still, thoagh now unseen, 

When brightly shines the prosperous day. 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And 0, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; 
No censer round our altar beams. 

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 
But Thou hast said, the blood of goats. 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize — 
A contrite heart, and humble thoughts, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

SiE "Walteb Scott. 



THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN. 

Up to the throne of God is borne 
The voice of praise at early morn, 
And He accepts the punctual hymn 
Sung as the light of day grows dim ; 

Nor wiU He turn his ear aside 
From holy offerings at noontide : 
Then, here reposing, let us raise 
A song of gratitude and praise. 



•746 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


"What though our burden be not light, 


No! 'tis a fast to dole 


We need not toil from morn to night ; 


Thy sheaf of wheat. 


The respite of the mid-day hour 


And meat. 


Is in the thankful creature's power. 


Unto the hungry soul. 


Blest are the moments, doublj blest, 
That, drawn from this one hour of rest, 
Are with a ready heart bestowed 
Upon the service of our God ! 


It is to fast from strife. 

From old debate 

And hate — 




To circumcise thy life. 


Each field is then a hallowed spot — 




An altar is in each man's cot, 


To show a heart grief-rent ; 


A church in every grove that spreads 


To starve thy sin. 


Its living roof above our heads. 


Not bin— 




And that 's to keep thy lent. 


Look up to heaven ! the industrious sun 


EOBEET HeEEICK. 


Already half his race hath run ; 




He cannot halt nor go astray — 


« 


But our immortal spirits may. 






FASTING. 


Lord ! since his rising in the east 




If we have faltered or transgressed, 
Guide, from Thy love's abundant source, 
What yet remains of this day's course. 


Is fasting then the thing that God requires ? 

Can fasting expiate, or slake those fires 
That sin hath blown to such a mighty 




flame? 


Help with Thy grace, through life's short 


Can sackcloth clothe a fault, or hide a shame ? 


day. 


Can ashes cleanse thy blot, or purge thy of- 


Our upward and our downward way; 


fence? 


And glorify for us the west. 


Or do thy hands make heaven a recompense. 


When we shall sink to final rest. 


By strewing dust upon thy briny face ? 


William Woedswoeth. 


Are these the tricks to purchase heavenly 




grace ? — 




No! though thou pine thyself with willing 




want. 


TO K K,EP A TEUE LENT. 


Or face look thin, or carcass ne'er so gaunt ; 




Although thou worser weeds than sackcloth 


Is this a fast — to keep 


wear. 


The larder lean, 


Or naked go, or sleep in shirts of hair ; 


And clean 


Or though thou choose an ash-tub for thy bed. 


From fat of veals and sheep ? 


Or make a daily dunghill on thy head ; — 




Thy labor is not poised with equal gains. 


Is it to quit the dish 


For thou hast nought but labor for thy 


Of flesh, yet still 


pains. 


TofiU 


Such holy madness God rejects and loathes, 


The platter high with fish? 


That sinks no deeper than the skin or cloth e3» 




'Tis not thine eyes, which, taught to weep 


Is it to fast an hour — 


by art. 


Or ragged to go — 


Look red with tears (not guilty of thy heart) ; 


Or show 


'T is not the holding of thy hands so high. 


A downcast look, and sour ? 


Nor yet the purer squinting of thine eye ; 



I 



CHARITY AND HUMILITY. 



747 



'Tis not your mimic mouths, your antic 

faces, 
Your Scripture phrases, or affected graces, 
K or prodigal up-banding of thine eyes. 
Whose gashful balls do seem to pelt the 

skies ; 
'T is not the strict reforming of your hair. 
So close that all the neighbor skull is 

bare ; 
'T is not the drooping of thy head so low, 
Nor yet the lowering of thy sullen brow ; 
Nor wolvish howling that disturbs the air. 
Nor repetitions, or your tedious prayer : 
No, no ! 't is none of this, that God regards — 
Such sort of fools their own applause re- 
wards ; 
Such puppet-plays to heaven are strange and 

quaint ; 
Their service is unsweet, and foully taint ; 
Their words fall fruitless from their idle 

brain — 
But true repentance runlS in other strain : 
Where sad contrition harbors, there the 

heart 
Is truly acquainted with the secret smart 
Of past offences — ^hates the bosom sin 
The most, which the soul took pleasure in. 
No crime unsifted, no sin unpresented. 
Can lurk unseen ; and seen, none unlament- 

ed. 
The troubled soul 's amazed with dire aspects 
Of lesser sins committed, and detects 
The wounded conscience ; it cries amain 
For mercy, mercy — cries, and cries again; 
It sadly grieves, and soberly laments ; 
It yearns for grace, reforms, returns, re- 
pents. 
Aye, this is incense whose accepted favor 
Mounts up the heavenly Throne, and findeth 

favor ; 
Aye, this is it whose valor never fails — 
With God it stoutly wrestles, and prevails ; 
Aye, this is it that pierces heaven above. 
Never returning home, like Noah's dove. 
But brings an olive leaf, or some increase 
That works salvation, and eternal peace. 

Feancis Qxjaeles. 



CHARITY AND HUMILITY. 

Fae have I clambered in my mind, 
But naught so great as love I JBnd ; 
Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might, 
Are naught compared to that good spright. 
Life of delight, and soul of bliss ! 
Sure source of lasting happiness! 
Higher than heaven, lower than hell ! 
What is thy tent? where mayst thou dwell? 

My mansion hight Humility, 
Heaven's vastest capability — 
The further it doth downward tend 
The higher up it doth ascend ; 
If it go down to utmost naught 
It shall return with that it sought. 

Lord, stretch Thy tent in my strait 
breast — 
Enlarge it downward, that sure rest 
May there be pight ; for that pure fire 
Wherewith thou wontest to inspire 
All self-dead souls. My life is gone — 
Sad solitude 's my irksome wonne. 
Cut off from men and all this world. 
In Lethe's lonesome ditch I 'm hurled. 
Nor might nor sight doth aught me move, 
Nor do I care to be above. 
O feeble rays of mental light. 
That best be seen in this dark night ! 
What are you ? what is any strength 
If it be not laid in one length 
With pride or love ? I naught desire 
But a new life, or quite t' expire. 
Could I demoKsh with mine eye 
Strong towers, stop the fleet stars in sky, 
Bring down to earth the pale-faced moon. 
Or turn black midnight to bright noon — 
Though all things were put in my hand — 
As parched, as dry, as the Libyan sand 
Would be my life, if charity 
Were wanting. But humility 
Is more than my poor soul durst crave. 
That lies intombed in lowly grave. 
But if 't were lawful up to send 
My voice to heaven, this should it rend : 

Lord, thrust me deeper into dust 
That Thou mayest raise me with the just ! 

Henry Moee. 



748 



POEMS OF RELIGION, 



HUMILITY. 

The bird that soars on highest wing 
Builds on the ground her lowlj nest ; 

And she that doth most sweetly sing 

Sings in the shade, where all things rest ; 
In lark and nightingale we see 

What honor hath humility. 

When Mary chose " the better part," 

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet ; 
And Lydia's gently opened heart 

Was made for God's own temple meet : 
Fairest and best adorned is she 

Whose clothing is humility. 

The saint that wears heaven's brightest 
crown 
In deepest adoration bends : 
The weight of glory bows him down 

Then most, when most his soul ascends : 
ITearest the throne itself must be 
The footstool of humility. 

James MoNTGOiiEBY. 



"IS THIS A TIME TO PLANT AKD 
BUILD?" 

Es this a time to plant and build, 
Add house to house, and field to field, 
When round our walls the battle lowers — 
When mines are hid beneath our towers, 
And watchful foes are stealing round 
To search and spoil the holy ground ? 

Is this a time for moonlight dreuuis 
Of love and home, by mazy streams — 
For fancy with her shadowy toys. 
Aerial hopes and pensive joys. 
While souls are wandering far and wide, 
And curses swarm on every side ? 

No — rather steel thy melting heart 
To act the martyr's sternest part — 
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye. 
Thy darling visions as they die, 
Till all bright hopes, and hues of day. 
Have faded into twilight gi'ay. 
Yes — let them pass without a sigh ; 
And if the world seem dull and dry — 



If long and sad thy lonely hours. 
And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers- 
Bethink thee what thou art, and where 
A sinner in a life of care. 

The fire of God is soon to fall — 
Thou know'st it — on this earthly ball ; 
Full many a soul, the price of blood 
Marked by the Almighty's hand for good. 
To utter death that hour shaU sweep — 
And will the saints in heaven dare weep ? 

Then in His wrath shall God uproot 
The trees He set, for lack of fruit ; 
And drown in rude tempestuous blaze 
The towers His hand had deigned to raise. 
In silence, ere that storm begin, 
Count o'er His mercies and thy sin. 



Pray only that thin^ aching heart — 
From visions vain content to part, 
Strong for love's sake its woe to hide- 
May cheerful wait the cross beside : 
Too happy if, that dreadful day. 
Thy life be given thee for a prey. 



Snatched sudden from the avenging rod, 
Safe in the bosom of thy God, 
How wilt thou then look back, and smile 
On thoughts that bitterest seemed erewhile, 
And bless the pangs that made thee see 
This was no world of rest for thee ! 

John K^sble. 



HYMN 

FOE ANNIVEESAEY MAREIAGE DATS. 

LoED, living here are we — 

As fast united yet 
As when our hands and hearts by Thee 

Together first were knit. 
And in a thankful song 

Now sing we will Thy praise. 
For that Thou dost as weU prolong 

Our loving as our days. 



THE PRIEST. 749 


Together we have now 


Her walls, wherewith she is inclosed. 


Begun another year ; 


And streets, are of pure gold composed. 


But how much time Thou wilt allow 




Thou mak'st it not appear. 


The gates, adorned with pearls most bright, 


"We, therefore, do implore 
That live and love we may, 


The way to hidden glory show ; 


And thither, by the blessed might 


r^ 1 'ii • n t 1 1 


Of faith in Jesus' merits, go 


Still so as if but one day more 


All those who are on earth distressed 


Together we should stay. 


Because they have Christ's name pro- 


Let each of other's wealth 


fessed. 


Preserve a faithful care, 


These stones the workmen dress and beat 


And of each other's joy and health 


Before they throughly polished are ; 


As if one soul we were. 


Then each is in his proper seat 


Such conscience let us make, 


Established by the Builder's care — 


Each other not to grieve, 


In this fair frame to stand for ever. 


As if we daily were to take 


So joined that them no force can sever. 


Our everlasting leave. 






To God, who sits in highest seat, 


The frowardness that springs 


Glory and power given be ! 


From our corrupted kind, 


To Father, Son, and Paraclete, 


Or from those troublous outward things 


Who reign in equal dignity — 


Which may distract the mind. 


Whose boundless power we still adore, 


Permit Thou not, Lord, 


And sing Their praise for evermore ! 


Our constant love to shake — 


"WiLTJAM DeXTMMOND. 


Or to disturb our true accord, 




Or make our hearts to ache. 


• 


But let these frailties prove 


THE PRIEST. 


Affection's exercise ; 




And that discretion teach our love 


I WOULD I were an excellent divine 


Which wins the noblest prize. 


That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; 


So time, which wears away, 


That men might hear out of this mouth of 


And ruins all things else. 


mine, 


Shall fix our love on Thee for aye, 


How God doth make His enemies His 


In whom perfection dwells. 


friends ; 


Geoege Withee. 


Rather than with a thundering and long 




prayer 
Be led into presumption, or despair. 




DEDICATION" OF A CHURCH. 


This would I be, and would none other be — 




But a religious servant of my God ; 


Jeeijsalem, that place divine. 


And know there is none other God but He, 


The vision of sweet peace is named ; 


And willingly to suffer mercy's rod — 


In heaven her glorious turrets shine — 


Joy in His grace, and live but in His love. 


Her walls of living stones are framed ; 


And seek my bliss but in the world above. 


While angels guard her on each side — 




Fit company for such a bride. 


And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer, 




For all estates within the state of grace. 


She, decked in new attire from heaven, 


That careful love might never know despair 


Her wedding chamber now descends, 


Nor servile fear might faithful love deface 


Prepared in marriage to be given 


And this would I both day and night devise 


To Christ, on whom her joy depends. 


To make my humble spirit's exercise. 



750 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


And I would read the rules of sacred life ; 


Hold but this book before your heart — 


Persuade the troubled soul to patience ; 


Let prayer alone to play his part. 


The husband care, and comfort to the wife, 




To child and servant due obedience ; 


But I the heart 


Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor 


That studies this high art 


peace, 


Must be a sure house-keeper, 


That love might live, and quarrels all might 


And yet no sleeper. 


cease. 


Dear soul, be strong — 


Prayer for the health of all that are diseased. 


Mercy will come ere long. 


Confession unto all that are convicted, 


And bring her bosom full of blessings — 


And patience unto all that are displeased. 


Flowers of never-fading graces, 


And comfort unto all that are aflSicted, 


To make immortal dressings 


And mercy unto all that have offended, 


For worthy souls, whose wise embraces 


And grace to all : that all may be amended. 


Store up themselves for Him who is alone 


Nicholas Bketon. 


The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son. 
But if the noble Bridegroom, when He comes. 






Shall find the wandering heart from 


ON A PKAiJEK BOOK SENT TO MRS. 


home, 


M. R. 


Leaving her chaste abode 




To gad abroad — 


Lo ! here a little volume, but great book. 


Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies 


(Fear it not, sweet — 


To take her pleasures, and to play. 


It is no hypocrite ! ) 


And keep the devil's holiday — 


Much larger in itself than in its look ! 


To dance in the sun-shine of some smiling, 




But beguiling 


It is — in one rich handful — Heaven, and all 




Heaven's royal hosts encamped — thus small 


Spear of sweet and sugared lies — 


To prove, that true schools use to tell. 


Some slippery pair 


A thousand angels in one point can dwell. 


Of false, perhaps as fair, 


It is love's great artillery, 


Flattering but forswearing eyes — 


"Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie 




Close couched in your white bosom, and from 


Doubtless some other heart 


thence. 


Will get the start. 


As from a snowy fortress of defence, 


And, stepping in before. 


Against the ghostly foe to take your part, 


Will take possession of the sacred stoa^e 


And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. 


Of hidden sweets and holy joys — 




Words which are not heard with ears. 


It is the armory of light — 


(These tumultuous shops of noise) 


Let constant use but keep it bright. 


Efiectual whispers, whose still voice 


You '11 find it yields 


The soul itself more feels than hears — 


To holy hands and humble hearts 




More swords and shields 


Amorous languishments, luminous trances. 


Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. 


Sights which are not seen with eyes — 


Only be sure 


Spiritual and soul-piercing glances, 


The hands be pure 


Whose pure and subtle lightning flies 


That hold these weapons, and the eyes 


Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, 


Those of turtles— chaste and true, 


And melts it down in sweet desire ; 


Wakeful and wise. 


Yet doth not stay 


Here is a friend shall fight for you ; 


To ask the windows leave to pass that way- 



THE TRUE USE OF MUSIC. '751 


Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 




Of soul, dear and divine annihilations — 


TFR TRUE USE OF MUSIC. 


A thousand unknown rites 




Of joys, and rarified delights — 


Listed into the cause of sin, 


An hundred thousand loves and graces, 


Why should a good be evil ? 


And many a mystic thing 


Music, alas ! too long has been 


"Which the divine embraces 


Pressed to obey the devil — 


Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will 


Drunken, or lewd, or Hght, the lay 


bring, 


Flowed to the soul's undoing — 


For which it is no shame 


Widened, and strewed with flowers, the 


That dull mortality must not know a name. 


way 


Of all this hidden store 


Down to eternal ruin. 


Of blessings, and ten thousand more, 
If, when He come, 


Who on the part of God win rise. 
Innocent sound recover — 


He find the heart from home. 




Doubtless He will unload 


Fly on the prey, and take the prize, 
Plunder the carnal lover — 


Himself some otherwhere, 




And pour abroad 
His precious sweets 


Strip him of every moving strain, 


Every melting measure — 


On the fair soul whom first He meets. 


Music in virtue's cause retain. 




Rescue the holy pleasure ? 


fair ! fortunate ! rich ! dear ! 




happy and thrice happy she — 
Dear silver-breasted dove. 
Whoe'er she be — 


Come let us try if Jesus' love 
Will not as well inspire us ; 
This is the theme of those above — 


Whose early love 
With winged vows 
Makes haste to meet her Morning Spouse, 


This upon earth shall fire us. 
Say, if your hearts are tuned to sing, 
Is there a subject greater ? 


And close with His immortal kisses- 


Harmony all its strains may bring; 


Happy soul ! who never misses 


Jesus' name is sweeter. 


To improve that precious hour, 


Jesus the soul of music is — 


And every day 


His is the noblest passion ; 


Seize her sweet prey — 


Jesus's name is joy and peace. 


All fresh and fragrant as He rises, 


Happiness and salvation ; 


Dropping with a balmy shower, 


Jesus's name the dead can raise — 


A delicious dew of spices ! 


Show us our sins forgiven — 


! let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful ; she shall taste 


Fill us with all the life of grace — 
Carry us up to heaven. 


At once ten thousand paradises — 


Who hath a right like us to sing — 


She shall have power 


Us whom His mercy raises ? 


To rifle and deflower 


Merry our hearts, for Christ is King ,- 


The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets 


Cheerful are all our faces ; 


Which, with a swelling bosom, there she 


Who of His love doth once partake 


meets — 


He evermore rejoices ; 


Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures 


Melody in our hearts we make — 


Of pure inebriating pleasures : 


Melody with our voices. 


Happy soul ! she shall discover 




What joy, what bliss, 


He that a sprinkled conscience hath — 


How many heavens at once, it is 


He that in God is merry — 


To have a God become her lover. 


Let him sing psalms, the Spirit saith. 


ElCHAED CeASHA-W. 


Joyful and never weary ; 



' 



752 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Offer the sacrifice of praise, 


Ye temples, that to God 


Hearty and never ceasing — 


Rise where our fathers' trod, 


Spiritual songs and anthems raise, 


Guard well your trust : 


Honor, and thanks, and blessing. 


The faith that dared the sea ; 




The truth that made them free ; 


Then let us in His praises join — 


Their cherished purity. 


Triumph in His salvation ; 


Their garnered dust. 


Glory ascribe to love divine, 




Worship and adoration ; 


Thou high and holy One, 


Heaven already is begun — 


Whose care for sire and son 


Opened in each believer ; 


All nature fiUs— 


Only believe, and still sing on : 


While day shall break and close, 


Heaven is ours for ever. 


While night her crescent shows. 


Chaeles Weslet, 


0, let Thy light repose 




On these our hills ! 

JOHK PlEEPONT. 




CEI^TEl^IAL ODE. 


^^^— 


Beeak forth in song, ye trees, 


THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. 


As, through your tops, the breeze 




Sweeps from the sea ! 


Sow in the morn thy seed. 


For, on its rushing wings. 


At eve hold not thine hand — 


To your cool shades and springs, 


To doubt and fear give thou no heed — 


That breeze a people brings. 


Broad-cast it o'er the land. 


Exiled though free. 






Beside all waters sow. 


Ye sister hills, lay down 


The highway furrows stock — 


Of ancient oaks your crown. 


Drop it where thorns and thistles grow, 


In homage due ; 


Scatter it on the rock. 


These are the great of earth — 




Great, not by kingly birth, 


The good, the fruitful ground 


Great in their well-proved worth — 


Expect not here nor there, 


Firm hearts and true. 


O'er hill and dale by plots 't is found : 




Go forth, then, everywhere. 


These are the living lights, 




That from your bold, green heights 


Thou know'st not which may thrive — 


Shall shine afar. 


The late or early sown ; 


Till they who name the name 


Grace keeps the precious germs alive, ! 


Of freedom, toward the flame 


When and wherever strown. 


Come, as the Magi came 




Toward Bethlehem's Star. 


And duly shall appear, 




In verdure, beauty, strength, 


Gone are those great and good 


The tender blade, the stalk, the ear. 


"Who here in peril stood 


And the full corn at length. 


And raised their hymn. 




Peace to the reverend dead! — 


Thou canst not toil in vain — 


The light, that on their head 


Cold, heat, and moist, and dry 


Two hundred years have shed, 


Shall foster and mature the grain 


Shall ne'er grow dim. 

• 


For garners in the sky. 



WHAT IS 


PRAYER. 753 


Thence, when the glorious end, 




The day of God is come. 


WHAT IS PRAYER? 


The angel-reapers shall descend. 




And heaven cry " Harvest home ! " 






Peatee is the soul's sincere desire, 


James Montgombey. 


Uttered or unexpressed — 




The motion of a hidden fire 
That trembles in the breast. 




MISSIONARY RYMN. 






Prayer is the burthen of a sigh. 


Feom Greenland's icy mountains. 


The falling of a tear — 


From India's coral strand, 


The upward glancing of an eye, 


Where Afric's sunny fountains 


When none but God is near. 


EoU down their golden sand — 




From many an ancient river. 


Prayer is the simplest form of speech 


From many a palmy plain, 


That infant lips can try — 


They call us to deliver 


Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 


Their land from error's chain. 


The Majesty on high. 


What though the spicy breezes 
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, 

Though every prospect pleases. 
And only man is vile : 

In vain, with lavish kindness. 


Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
Returning from his ways, 

While angels in their songs rejoice, 
And cry, " Behold he prays ! " 


The gifts of God are strown — 




The heathen, in his blindness, 


Prayer is the Christian's vital breath — 


Bows down to wood and stone. 


The Christian's native air — 




His watchword at the gates of death — 


Shall we, whose souls are lighted 


He enters heaven with prayer. 


With wisdom from on high — 




Shall we to man benighted 


The saints in prayer appear as one 


The lamp of life deny? 


In word, and deed, and mind. 


Salvation! 0, Salvation! 


While with the Father and the Son 


The joyful sound proclaim. 


Sweet fellowship they find. 


Till earth's remotest nation 




Has learned Messiah's name. 






Nor prayer is made by man alone — 


Waffc, waft, ye winds, the story, 
And you, ye waters, roll. 


The Holy Spirit pleads — 
And Jesus, on the eternal throne. 
For sinners intercedes. 


Till, like a sea of glory, 




It spreads from pole to pole — 




Till o'er our ransomed nature 


Thou by whom we come to God — 


The Lamb for sinners slain — 


The life, the truth, the way ! 


Redeemer, King, Creator — 


The path of prayer Thyself hast trod : 


In bliss return to reign. 


Lord, teach us how to pray. 


Eeginald Hebek. 


James Montqqmbet, 


48 





754 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. 

Not on a prayeriess bed, not on a prayerless 
bed 
Compose thy weary limbs to rest ; 
For they alone are blessed 
With balmy sleep 
Whom angels keep ; 
Nor, though by care oppressed, 
Or anxious sorrow, 
Or thought in many a coil perplexed 
For coming morrow, 
Lay not thy head 
On prayerless bed. 

For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall 
close. 
That earthly cares and woes 
To thee may e'er return ? 
Arouse, my soul ! 
Slumber control. 
And let thy lamp burn brightly ; 

So shall thine eyes discern 
Things pure and sightly ; 
Taught by the Spirit, learn 
Never on prayerless bed 
To lay thine nnblest head. 

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care. 
That calls for holy prayer ? 
Has thy day been so bright 
That in its flight 
There is no trace of sorrow? 
And art thou sure to-morrow 
Will be like this, and more 
Abundant ? Dost thou yet lay up thy store. 
And still make plans for more ? 
Thou fool I this very night 
Thy soul may wing its flight. 

Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, 
That ploughs the ocean deep, 
And when storms sweep 
The wintry, lowering sky, 
For whom thou wak'st and weepest ? 

0, when thy pangs are deepest. 
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer ; 
For He that slumbereth not is there — 
His ear is open to thy cry. 
O, then, on prayerless bed 
Lay not thy thoughtless head. 



Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slum- 
ber. 
Till in communion blest 

With the elect ye rest — 
Those souls of countless number ; 

And with them raise 

The note of praise. 
Reaching from earth to heaven — 

Chosen, redeemed, forgiven ; 

So lay thy happy head. 

Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. 

Masgabet M£BCEB. 



HYMN. 



Whe]s: the angels all are singing 
All of glory ever-springing, 
In the ground of heaven's high graces, 
Where all virtues have their places, 
that my poor soul were near them, 
With an humble faith to hear them ! 

Then should faith, in love's submission, 
Joying but in mercy's blessing. 
Where that sins are in remission 
Sing the joyful soul's confessing — 
Of her comforts high commending, 
All in glory never-ending. 

But, ah wretched sinful creature ! 
How should the corrupted nature 
Of this wicked heart of mine 
Think upon that love divine, 
That doth tune the angels' voices 
While the host of heaven rejoices? 

No ! the song of deadly sorrow 

In the night that hath no morrow — 

And their pains are never ended 

That have heavenly powers offended — 

Is more fitting to the merit 

Of my foul infected spirit. 

Yet while mercy is removing 
All the sorrows of the loving, 
How can faith be full of blindness 
To despair of mercy's kindness — 
While the hand of heaven is giving 
Comfort from the Ever-living? 



i 



LOVE. 



755 



No, my soul, be noltnore sorry — 
Look unto that life of glory 
Wlncli the grace of faith regardeth, 
And the tears of love rewardeth — 
Where the soul the comfort getteth 
That the angels' music setteth. 

There — when thou art well conducted. 

And by heavenly grace instructed 

How the faithful thoughts to fashion 

Of a ravished lover's passion — 

Sing with saints, to angels nighest, 

Hallelujah in the highest. 

Gloria in Excelsis Domino ! 

Nicholas Bketon. 



"O YET WE TRUST." 

O, YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 



Behold ! we know not any thing ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off— at last, to all — 

And every Winter change to Spring. 

So runs ray dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night — 
An infant crying for the light — 

And with no language but a cry. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



MARY. 

Hee eyes are homes of silent prayer ; 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But — he was dead, and there he sits, 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 

Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so pure. 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

Alfeed Tenntson. 



LOVE. 

Had I the tongues of Greeks and Jews, 
And nobler speech than angels use, 
If love be absent I am found 
Like tinkling brass, an empty sound. 

Were I inspired to preach, and tell 
All that is done in heaven and hell — 
Or could my faith the world remove. 
Still I am nothing without love. 

Should I distribute all my store 
To feed the bowels of the poor, 
Or give my body to the flame 
To gain a martyr's glorious name — 

If love to God, and love to men, 
Be absent, all my hopes are vain ; 
Nor tongues, nor gifts, nor fiery zeal. 
The work of love can e'er fulfil. 

Isaac Watts. 



756 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 




Come in this accepted hour — 


CHARITY. 


Bring Thine heavenly kingdom in ; 




Fill us with the glorious power 


Could I command, with voice or pen, 


Rooting out the seeds of sin. 


The tongues of angels and of men. 


Nothing more can we require, — 


A tinkling cymbal, sounding brass, 


We will covet nothing less ; 


Mj speech and preaching would surpass ; 


Thou art all our heart's desire, — 


Vain were such eloquence to me, 


All our joy, and all our peace. 


Without the grace of charity. 






Whom but Thee have we in heaven — 


Could I the martyr's flame endure, 


Whom have we on earth but Thee ? 


Give all my goods to feed4he poor — 


Only Thou to us be given — 


Had I the faith from Alpine steep 


All besides is vanity ; 


To hurl the mountain to the deep — 


Grant us love, we ask no more — 


What were such zeal, such power, to me 


Every other gift remove ; 


"Without the grace of charity ? 


Pleasure, fame, and wealth, and power, 




Still we all enjoy in love. 


Could I behold with prescient eye 


Chables Wesley. 


Things future, as the things gone by — 




Could I all earthly knowledge scan. 




- • 


And mete out heaven with a span — 




Poor were the chief of gifts to me 


FOR BELIEVERS. 


Without the chiefest — charity. 




Charity suffers long, is kind — 
Charity bears a humble mind — 
Rejoices not when ills befall, 
But glories in the weal of all ; 
She hopes, beheves, and envies not, 
Nor vaunts, nor murmurs o'er her lot. 


Thou hidden source of calm repose, 
Thou all-sufficient Love divine. 

My help and refuge from my foes, 
Secure I am if Thou art mine ! 

And lo ! from sin, and grief, and shame, 

I hide me, Jesus, in Thy name. 


The tongues of teachers shall be dumb. 


Thy mighty name salvation is. 


Prophets discern not things to come. 


And keeps my happy soul above ; 


Knowledge shall vanish out of thought. 


Comfort it brings, and power, and peace, 


And miracles no more be wrought ; 


And joy, and everlasting love ; 


But charity shall never fail — 


To me, with Thy dear name, are given 


Her anchor is within the veil. 


Pardon, and holiness, and heaven. 


James Montgomery. 






Jesus, my all in all Thou art — 
My rest in toil, my ease in pain ; • 






The medicine of my broken heart ; 


FOR THOSE THAT WAIT FOR FULL 


In war my peace ; in loss my gain ; 


REDEMPTION. 


My smile beneath the tyrant's frown ; 




In shame my glory and my crown ; 


Light of life, — seraphic fire, — 




Love divine, — Thyself impart ! 


In want my plentiful supply ; 


Every faiuting soul inspire ; 


In weakness my almighty power ; 


Shine in every drooping heart ; 


In bonds my perfect liberty ; 


Every mournful sinner cheer ; 


My light in Satan's darkest hour ; 


Scatter all our guilty gloom ; 


In grief my joy unspeakable ; 


Son of God, appear! appear ! — 


My life in death, my heaven in hell. 


To Thine human temi)]es come. 


Chakles Wesley 



DIVINE LOYE. 



151 



DEsmma to love. 

LOVE divine, how sweet Thou art ! 
When shall I find my willing heart 

All taken up by Thee ? 

1 thirst, and faint, and die to prove 
The greatness of redeeming love, — . 

The love of Christ to me. 

Stronger His love than death or hell ; 
Its riches are unsearchable ; 

The first-born sons of light 
Desire in vain its depth to see — 
They cannot reach the mystery, 

The length, and breadth, and height. 

God only knows the love of God — 
O that it now were shed abroad 

In this poor stony heart ! 
For love I sigh, for love I pine ; 
This only portion. Lord, be mine — 

Be mine this better part. 

O that I could for ever sit 
With Mary at the Master's feet ! 

Be this my happy choice — 
My only care, delight, and bliss, 
My joy, my heaven on earth, be this — 

To hear the Bridegroom's voice. 

O that, with humbled Peter, I 
Could weep, believe, and thrice reply. 

My faithfulness to prove ! 
Thou knowest, for all to Thee is known — 
Thou knowest, Lord, and Thou alone — 

Thou knowest that Thee I love. 

O that I could, with favored John, 
Eecline my weary head upon 

The dear Redeemer's breast ! 
From care, and sin, and sorrow free. 
Give me, O Lord, to find in Thee 

My everlasting rest ! 

Thy only love do I require — 
Nothing in earth beneath desire, 

Nothing in heaven above ; 
Let earth and heaven and all things go — 
Give me Thy only love to know, 

Give me Thy only love ! 

Chaeles Wesley. 



DIVINE LOVE. 

Thott hidden love of God! whose height, 
Whose depth unfathomed, no man knows — 

I see from far Thy beauteous light, 
Inly I sigh for thy repose. 

My heart is pained ; nor can it be 

At rest till it finds rest in Thee. 

Thy secret voice invites me still 

The sweetness of Thy yoke to prove ; 

And fain I would ; but though my will 
Seem fixed, yet wide my passions rove ; 

Yet hindrances strew aU the way — 

I aim at Thee, yet from Thee stray. 

'T is mercy all, that Thou hast brought 
My mind to seek her peace in Thee ! 

Yet while I seek, but find Thee not. 
No peace my wandering soul shall see. 

O when shall all my wanderings end. 

And aU my steps to Theeward tend ? 

Is there a thing beneath the sun 

That strives with Thee my heart to share ? 
Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone — 

The Lord of every motion there ! 
Then shall my heart from earth be free. 
When it hath found repose in Thee. 

hide this self from me, that I 
No more, but Christ in me, may live ! 

My vile affections crucify, 

Nor let one darling lust survive ! 

In all things nothing may I see, 

Nothing desire or seek, but Thee 

Love, Thy sovereign aid impart 
To save me from low-thoughted care ; 

Chase this self-will through all my heart. 
Through all its latent mazes there ; 

Make me Thy duteous child, that I 

Ceaseless may "Abba, Father," cry! 

Ah, no ! ne'er will I backward turn — 
Thine wholly. Thine alone I am ; 

Thrice happy he who views with scorn 
Earth's toys, for Thee his constant flame. 

O help, that I may never move 

From the blest footsteps of Thy love I 



758 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Each moment draw from earth away 
My heart, that lowly waits Thy call ; 

Speak to my inmost soul, and say 
" I am thy Love, thy God, thy All ! " 

To feel Thy power, to hear Thy voice, 

To taste Thy love, he all my choice. 

Gebhaed Tersteegen. (German.) 
Translation of John Wesley. 



LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIEIT. 

In the hour of my distress, 
When temptations me oppress, 
And when I my sins confess, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me I 

When I lie within my hed, 
Sick at heart, and sick in head. 
And with douhts discomforted, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drowned in sleep. 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hope, but of his fees. 
And his skill runs on the lees, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When his potion and his pill, 

His or none or little skill. 
Meet for nothing, hut to kill — 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the passing hell doth toll. 
And the Furies, in a shoal, 
Come to fright a parting soul, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the tapers now burn blue, 
And the comforters are few, 
And that number more than true, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me I 

When the priest his last hath prayed, 
And I nod to what is said 
Because my speech is now decayed, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 



When, God knows, I 'm tost about 
Either with despair or doubt, 
Yet before the glass be out. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the Tempter me pnrsu'th 
With the sins of all my youth. 
And half damns me with untruth, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, 
And all terrors me surprise, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the judgment is revealed, 
And that opened which was sealed — 
When to Thee I have appealed, 
iBweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

EOBERT HeBKIOK. 



O! FEAR NOT THOU TO DIE. 

FEAE not thou to die — 

Far rather fear to live ! — ^for life 

Has thousand snares thy feet to try, 

By peril, pain, and strife. 

Brief is the work of death ; 

But life — ^the spirit shrinks to see 

How full, ere heaven recalls the breath, 

The cup of woe may be. 

fear not thou to die — 

No more to suffer or to sin — 

No snare without, thy faith to try — 

No traitor heart within ; 

But fear, O rather fear 

The gay, the light, the changeful scene — 

The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 

From heaven thy heart to wean. 

fear not thou to die — 

To die and be that blessed one 

Who in the bright and beauteous sky 

May feel his conflict done — 

May feel that never more 

The tear of grief, of shame, shall come. 

For thousand wanderings from the Power 

Who loved and called thee home. 

Anonymous. 



THE VALEDICTION. 



759 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 
O the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper : angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite, 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? 

The world recedes — ^it disappears ; 

Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

"With sounds seraphic ring : 

Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly ! 

O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O Death I where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope. 



THE VALEDICTION. 

Vaijst world, what is in thee ? 
"What do poor mortals see 
Which should esteemed be 

Worthy their pleasure ? 
Is it the mother's womb. 
Or sorrows which soon come, 
Or a dark grave and tomb ; 

Which is their treasure ? 
How dost thou man deceive 

By thy vain glory? 
Why do they still believe 

Thy false history? 

Is it children's book and rod, 
The laborer's heavy load. 
Poverty undertrod, 

The world desireth ? 
Is it distracting cares. 
Or heart-tormenting fears. 
Or pining grief and tears, 

Which man requireth ? 



Or is it youthful rage, 

Or childish toying ? 
Or is decrepit age 

Worth man's enjoying? 

Is it deceitful wealth. 

Got by care, fraud, or stealth, 

Or short, uncertain health, 

Which thus befool men ? 
Or do the serpent's lies, 
By the world's flatteries 
And tempting vanities, 

Still overrule them ? 
Or do they in a dream 

Sleep out their season? 
Or borne down by lust's stream, 

Which conquers reason? 

The silly lambs to-day 
Pleasantly skip and play, 
Whom butchers mean to slay. 

Perhaps to-morrow ; 
In a more brutish sort 
Do careless sinners sport. 
Or in dead sleep still snort. 

As near to sorrow ; 
Till life, not well begun. 

Be sadly ended. 
And the web they have spun 

Can ne'er be mended. 

What is the time that 's gone. 
And what is that to come ? 
Is it not now as none ? 

The present stays not. 
Time posteth, how fast ! 
Unwelcome death makes haste ; 
None can call back what 's past — 

Judgment delays not ; 
Though God bring in the Hght, 

Sinners awake not — 
Because hell 's out of sight. 

They sin forsake not. 

Man walks in a vain show ; 
They know, yet will not know ; 
Sit still when they should go — 

But run for shadows. 
While they might taste and know 
The living streams that flow. 
And crop the flowers that grow. 

In Christ's sweet meadows. 



760 



POEMS OF EELIGION. 



Life 's better slept away 

Than as they use it ; 
In sin and drunken play 

Vain men abuse it. 

Malignant world, adieu! 
Where no foul vice is new — 
Only to Satan true, 

God still offended ; 
Though taught and warned by God, 
And His chastising rod. 
Keeps still the way that 's broad, 

Never amended. 
Baptismal vows some make. 

But ne'er perform them ; 
If angels from heaven spake, 

'Twould not reform them. 

They dig for hell beneath, 
They labor hard for death, 
Eun themselves out of breath 

To overtake it. 
Hell is not had for naught. 
Damnation 's dearly bought, 
And with great labor sought — 

They '11 not forsake it. 
Their souls are Satan's fee — 

He '11 not abate it. 
Grace is refused that 's free — 

Had sinners hate it. 

Vile man is so perverse. 

It 's too rough work for verse 

His badness to rehearse, 

And show his folly ; 
He '11 die at any rates — 
He God and conscience hates, 
Yet sin he consecrates. 

And calls it holy. 
The grace he '11 not endure 

Which would renew him — 
Constant to all, and sure, 

Which will undo him. 

His head comes first at birth, 
And takes root in the earth — 
As nature shooteth forth, 

His feet grow highest, 
To kick at all above. 
And spurn at saving love ; 
His God is in his grove, 

Because it 's nighest ; 



He loves this world of strife, 
Hates that would mend it ; 

Loves death that 's called life, 
Fears what would end it. 

All that is good he 'd crush, 
Blindly on sin doth rush — 
A pricking thorny bush, 

Such Christ was crowned with ; 
Their worship 's like to this — 
The reed, the Judas kiss : 
Such the religion is 

That these abound with ; 
They mock Christ with the knee 

Whene'er they bow it — 
As if God did not see 

The heart, and know it. 

Of good they choose the least, 
Despise that which is best — 
The joyful, heavenly feast 

Which Christ would give them : 
Heaven hath scarce one cold wish ; 
They live unto the flesh ; 
Like swine they feed on wash — 

Satan doth drive them. 
Like weeds, they grow in mire 

Which vices nourish — 
Where, warmed by Satan's fire, 

All sins do flourish. 

Is this the world men choose. 
For which they heaven refuse. 
And Christ and grace abuse. 

And not receive it? 
Shall I not guilty be 
Of this in some degree. 
If hence God would me free, 

And I 'd not leave it ? 
My soul, from Sodom fly, 

Lest wrath there find thee ; 
Thy refuge-rest is nigh — 

Look not behind thee ! 

There 's none of this ado, 
None of the hellish crew ; 
God's promise is most true — 

Boldly believe it. 
My friends are gone before. 
And I am near the shore ; 
My soul stands at the door — 

Lord, receive it ! 



THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. 



761 



It trusts Christ and His merits — 

The dead He raises ; 
Join it with blessed spirits 

Who sing Thy praises. 

ElCHAED BaXTEE. 



HYMN. 



"When rising from the bed of death, 
O'erwhelmed with guilt and fear, 

I see my Maker face to face, 
O, how shall I appear ? 

If yet while pardon may be found, 

And mercy may be sought, 
My heart with inward horror shrinks, 

And trembles at the thought — 

"When Thou, Lord, shalt stand dis- 
closed 

In majesty severe, 
And sit in judgment on my soul, 

0, how shall I appear ? 

But Thou hast told the troubled soul, 

Who does her sins lament, 
The timely tribute of her tears 

Shall endless woe prevent. 

Then see the sorrows of my heart 

Ere yet it be too late, 
And hear my Saviour's dying groans 

To give those sorrows weight. 

For never shall my soul despair 

Her pardon to procure. 
Who knows Thy only Son has died 

To malce that pardon sure. 

Joseph Addison. 



HYMN". 



Beothee, thou art gone before us, 

And thy saintly soul is flown 
Where tears are wiped from every eye. 

And sorrow is unknown — 
From the burden of the flesh, 

And from care and sin released. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling. 

And the weary are at rest. 



The toilsome way thou 'st travelled o'er. 

And hast borne the heavy load ; 
But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet 

To reach His blest abode. 
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, 

On his Father's faithful breast. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

Sin can never taint thee now, 

Nor can doubt thy faith assail ; 
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 

And the Holy Spirit fail. 
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good. 

Whom on earth thou lovest best, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling. 

And the weary are at rest. 

" Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 

Thus the solemn priest hath said — 
So we lay the turf above thee now. 

And seal thy narrow bed ; 
But thy spirit, brother, soars away 

Among the faithful blest. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling. 

And the weary are at rest. 

And when the Lord shall summon us 

Whom thou now hast left behind. 
May we, untainted by the world. 

As sure a welcome find ; 
May each, like thee, depart in peace. 

To be a glorious, happy guest 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

Henet Haet Milman. 



THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. 

Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer 
deplore thee. 
Though sorrows and darkness encompass 
the tomb ; 
The Saviour has passed through its portals 
before thee, 
And the lamp of His love is thy guide 
through the gloom. 



762 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer 
behold thee, 
Nor tread the rough path of the world by 
thy side ; 
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to en- 
fold thee, 
And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has 
died. 

Tliou art gone to the grave — and, its mansion 
forsaking. 
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered 
long, 
But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on 
thy waking, 
And the song which thou heard'st was the 
seraphim's song. 

Thou art gone to the grave — but 't were wrong 
to deplore thee, 
"When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, 
thy guide ; 
He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will 
restore thee, 
"Where death hath no sting, since the Sa- 
viour hath died. 

Keginald Hebeb. 



DEATH. 

Ah, lovely appearance of death ! 

What sight upon earth is so fair ? 
Not all the gay pageants that breathe 

Can with a dead body compare ; 
"With solemn delight I survey 

The corpse, when the spirit is fled— 
In love with the beautiful clay. 

And longing to lie in its stead. 

How blest is our brother, bereft 

Of all that could burden his mind ! 
How easy the soul that has left 

This wearisome body behind ! 
Of evil incapable, thou. 

Whose relics with envy I see — 
No longer in misery now. 

No longer a sinner like me. 



This earth is affected no more 

With sickness, or shaken with pain ; 
The war in the members is o'er, 

And never shall vex him again ; 
No anger henceforward, or shame, 

Shall redden this innocent clay ; 
Extinct is the animal flame. 

And passion is vanished away. 

This languishing head is at rest — 

Its thinking and aching are o'er ; 
This quiet, immovable breast 

Is heaved by affliction no more ; 
This heart is no longer the seat 

Of trouble, and torturing pain ; 
It ceases to flutter and beat — 

It never shall flutter again. 

The lids he so seldom could close, 

By sorrow forbidden to sleep — 
Sealed up in their mortal repose, 

Have strangely forgotten to weep ; 
The fountains can yield no supplies — 

These hollows from water are free ; 
The tears are all wjped from these eyes, 

And evil they never shaU see. 

To mourn and to suffer is mine, 

While bound in a prison I breathe, 
And still for deliverance pine, 

And press to the issues of death ; 
What now with my tears I bedew 
O might I this moment become ! 
My spirit created anew, 
• My flesh be consigned to the tomb ! 

Chaeles Weslet 



A DIRGE. 

"Eaeth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 

Here the evil and the just. 

Here the youthful and the old. 

Here the fearful and the bold. 

Here the matron and the maid, . 

In one silent bed are laid ; 

Here the vassal and the king 

Side by side lie withering ; 

Here the sword and sceptre rust — 

"Earth to earth, and dust to dust 1 " 



FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW 



763 



Age on age shall roll along 
O'er this pale and mighty throng ; 
Those that wept them, they that weep, 
All shall with these sleepers sleep ; 
Brothers, sisters of the worm. 
Summer's sun, or Winter's storm. 
Song of peace, or battle's roar 
Ne'er shall break their slumbers more ; 
Death shall keep his sullen trust — 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 



But a day is coming fast — 
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last ! 
It shall come in fear and wonder, 
Heralded by trump and thunder ; 
It shall come in strife and toil, 
It shall come in blood and spoil ; 
It shall come in empire's groans. 
Burning temples, ruined thrones ; 
Theu, Ambition, rue thy lust ! 
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust! " 



Then shall come the judgment sign ; 
In the east the King shall shine, 
Flashing from heaven's golden gate — 
Thousands, thousands, round His state- 
Spirits with the crown and plume ; 
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb ! 
Heaven shall open on thy sight, 
Earth be turned to living light — 
Kingdom of the ransomed just — 
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust." 



Then thy mount, Jerusalem, 
Shall be gorgeous as a gem ! 
Then shall in the desert rise 
Fruits of more than Paradise ; 
Earth by angel feet be trod — 
One great garden of her God ! 
Till are dried the martyr's tears, 
Through a thousand glorious years ! 
Now in hope of Him we trust — 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust." 

Geoege Ckolt. 



FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW 

DEPEIVED OF A LOVING YOKEFELLOW. 

How near me came the hand of death, 
When at my side he struck my dear. 
And took away the precious breath 
Which quickened my beloved peer ! 
How helpless am I thereby made — 
By day how grieved, by night how sad ! 
And now my life's delight is gone, 
Alas, how am I left alone ! 

The voice which I did more esteem 
Than music in her sweetest key. 
Those eyes which unto me did seem 
More comfortable than the day — 
Those now by me, as they have been, 
Shall never more be heard or seen ; 
But what I once enjoyed in them 
Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 

All earthly comforts vanish thus — 
So little hold of them have we 
That we from them or they from us 
May in a moment ravished be ; * 

Yet we are neither just nor wise 

If present mercies we despise, 
Or mind not how there may be made 
A thankful use of what we had. 

I therefore do not so bemoan, 
Though these beseeming tears I drop. 
The loss of my beloved one 
As they that are deprived of hope ; 
But in expressing of my grief 
My heart receiveth some relief. 
And joyeth in the good I had. 
Although my sweets are bitter made. 

Lord, keep me faithful to the trust 
Which my dear spouse reposed in me ! 
To him now dead preserve me just 
In all that should performed be ; 

For though our being man and wife 

Extendeth only to this life. 
Yet neither life nor death should end 
The being of a faithful friend. 



•764 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Those helps which I through him enjoyed, 
Let Thy continual aid supply — 
That, though some hopes in him are void, 
I always may on Thee rely ; 

And whether I shall wed again, 

Or in a single state remain. 
Unto Thine honor let it be. 
And for a blessing unto me. 

Geoege Withee. 



, THEY AEE ALL GONE. 

They are all gone into the world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 
And my sad thoughts doth clear ; 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove — 
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

1 see them walking in an air of glory. 

Whose light doth trample on my days — 
My days which are at best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

holy hope ! and high humility — 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have showed 
them me 
To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death —the jewel of the just — 

Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 

"What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest 
may know, 
At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now. 
That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our 
wonted themes. 
And into glory peep. 



If a star were confined into a tomb. 

Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 
But when the hand that locked her up gives 
room. 
She '11 shine through all the sphere. 

Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee ! 
Kesume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
Into true liberty. 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and 
fill 
My perspective still as they pass ; 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass. 

Hekey Vatjghan. 



EACH SORROWFUL MOURNER. 

Each sorrowful mourner, be silent ! 
Fond mothers, give over your weeping ! 
JSTor grieve for those pledges as perished — 
This dying is life's reparation. 

Now take him, earth, to thy keeping. 
And give him soft rest in thy bosom ; 
I lend thee the frame of a Christian — 
I entrust thee the generous fragments. 

Thou holily guard the deposit — 
He will well. He will surely, require it. 
Who, forming it, made its creation 
The type of His image and likeness. 

But until the resolvable body 
Thou recallest, O God, and reformest, 
What regions, unknown to the mortal. 
Dost Thou will the pure soul to inhabit ? 

It shall rest upon Abraham's bosom. 
As the spirit of blest Eleazar, 
Whom, afar in that Paradise, Dives 
Beholds from the flames of his torments. 

We follow Thy saying, Redeemer, 
Whereby, as on death Thou wast trampling, 
The thief, Thy companion, Thou willedst 
To tread in Thy footsteps and triumph. 



THE HEAVENLY CANAAN V65 


To tlie faithful the bright way is open, 


Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 


Henceforward, to Paradise leading, 


Beyond the coming and the going, 


And to that blessed grove we have access 


I shall be soon. 


Whereof man was bereaved by the serpent. 


Love, rest, and home ! 




Sweet hope I 


^ Thou Leader and Guide of Thy people. 


Lord, tarry not, 'but come. 


Give command that the soul of Thy servant 




May have holy repose in the country 


Beyond the parting and the meeting 


Whence, exile and erring, he wandered. 


I shall be soon ; 




Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 


We will honor the place of his resting 


Beyond this pulse's fever-beating, 


With violets and garlands of flowers, 


I shall be soon. 


And will sprinkle inscription and marble 


Lo^e, rest, and home ! 


With odors of costliest fragrance. 


Sweet hope ! 


AuBELiTJS Pbttdentitts. (Latin.) 


Lord, tarry not, dut come. 


Translation of John Mason Neale. 






. Beyond the frost-chain and the fever 
I shall be soon ; 






Beyond the rock- waste and the river, 


A LITTLE WHILE. 


Beyond the ever and the never, 




I shall be soon. 


Beyond the smiling and the weeping 


Love, rest, and home ! 


I shall be soon ; 


Sweet hope ! 


Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 


Lord, tarry not, tut come. 


Beyond the sowing and the reaping. 


HOBATHTS BONAE. 


I shaU be soon. 
Love^ rest, and 7wme ! 






Sweet hope ! 




Lord^ tarry not, hut come. 


THE HEAYEIJTLY CANAAN". 


Beyond the blooming and the fading 


Theee is a land of pure delight, 


I shall be soon ; 


Where saints immortal reign ; 


Beyond the shining and the shading. 


Infinite day excludes the night, 


Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 


And pleasures banish pain. 


I shall be soon. 




X(W6, reU, and home ! 


There everlasting spring abides, 


Sweet hope ! 


And never-withering flowers ; 


Lord, tarry not, lut come. 


Death, like a narrow sea, divides 




This heavenly land from ours. 


Beyond the rising and the setting 




I shaU be soon ; 




Beyond the calming and the fretting. 


Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 


Beyond remembering and forgetting. 


Stand dressed in living green ; 


I shall be soon. 


So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 


Love, rest, and home ! 


While Jordan rolled between. 


Sweet hope ! 




Lord, tarry not, but come. 


But timorous mortals start and shrink 




To cross this narrow sea, 


Beyond the gathering and the strowing 


And linger shivering on the brink. 


I shall be soon ; 


And fear to launch away. 







766 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


! could we make our doubts remove, 


No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, 


Those gloomy doubts that rise, 


No woful night is there ; 


And see the Canaan that we love 


No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 


With unbeclouded eyes — 


No well-away, no fear. 




Jerusalem the city is 


Could we but climb where Moses stood, 


Of God our King alone ; , , 


And view the landscape o'er, 


The Lamb of God, the light thereof, 


Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold 


Sits there upon His throne. 


flood, ■ 




Should fright us from the shore. 


God ! that I Jerusalem 


Isaac Watts. 


With speed may go behold ! 




For why ? the pleasures there abound 




Which here cannot be told. 




Thy turrets, and thy pinnacles, 


THE NEW JERUSALEM; 


With carbuncles do shine — 




With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 


OE, THE soul's BEEATHING AFTEE THE HEAV- 


Surpassing pure and fine. 


ENLY COUNTEY. 






Thy houses are of ivory. 


" Since Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, 
Take this rude song in better part." 


Thy windows 'crystal clear. 
Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 




There angels do appear. 




Thy walls are made of precious stone. 


MOTHEE dear, Jerusalem, 


Thy bulwarks diamond square. 


When shall I come to thee ? 


Thy gates are made of orient pearl— 


When shall my sorrows have an end — 


God ! if I were there ! 


Thy joys when shall I see? 




0, happy harbor of God's saints ! 

0, sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In thee no sorrows can be found — 


Within thy gates nothing can come 
That is not passing clean ; 




No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust. 


No grief, no care, no toil. 


No filth may there be seen. 




Jehovah, Lord, now come away, 


In thee no sickness is at all, 


And end my griefs and plaints — 


No hurt nor any sore ; 


Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 


There is no death nor ugly night. 


And place me with Thy saints ! 


But life for evermore. 




No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, 


Who there are crowned with glory great, 


No cloud nor darksome night. 


And see God face to face. 


But every soul shines as the sun — 


They triumph still, and aye rejoice- 


For God himself gives light. 


Most happy is their case. 




But we that are in banishment. 


There lust and lucre cannot dwell. 


Continually do moan ; 


There envy bears no sway ; 


We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 


There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat, 


Perpetually we groan. 


But pleasures every way. 




Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 


Our sweetness mixed is with gall. 


. Would God I were in thee ! 


Our pleasures are but pain, 


that my sorrows had an end, 


Our joys not worth the looking on — 


Thy joys that I might see ! 


Our sorrows aye remain. 



THE NEW JERUSALEM. 



V67 



But there they live in such delight, 

Such pleasure and such play, 
That unto them a thousand years 

Seems but as yesterday. 

O my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 

Thy joys when shall I see — 
Thy King sitting upon His throne, 

And thy felicity ? 
Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, 

So wonderfully rare, 
Are furnished with all kinds of fruit, 

Most beautifully fair. 

Thy gardens, and thy goodly walks. 

Continually are green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 

As nowhere else are seen. 
There cinnamon and sugar grow, 

There nard and balm abound ; 
No tongue can tell, no heart can think, 

The pleasures there are found. 

There nectar and ambrosia spring — 

There music 's ever sweet ; 
There many a fair and dainty thing 

Are trod down under feet. 
Quite through the streets, with pleasant 
sound. 

The flood of life doth flow ; 
Upon the banks, on every side, 

The trees of life do grow. 

These trees each month yield ripened 
fruit — 

For evermore they spring ; 
And all the nations of the world 

To thee their honors bring. 
Jerusalem, God's dwelling place 

Full sore I long to see ; 
0*that my sorrows had an end, 

That I might dwell in thee ! 

There David stands, with harp in hand. 

As master of the choir ; 
A thousand times that man were blest 

That might his music hear. 
There Mary sings " Magnificat," 

With tunes surpassing sweet ; 
And all the virgins bear their part. 

Singing about her feet. 



" Te Deum" doth St. Ambrose sing, 

St. Austin doth the like ; 
Old Simeon and Zacharie 

Have not their songs to seek. 
There Magdalene hath left her moan, 

And cheerfully doth sing. 
With all blest saints whose harmony 

Through every street doth ring. 

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 

Thy joys fain would I see ; 
Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, 

And take me home to Thee ! 
O paint Thy name on my forehead, 

And take me hence away. 
That I may dwell with Thee in bliss. 

And sing Thy praises aye. 

Jerusalem, the happy home — 

Jehovah's throne on high ! 
O sacred city, queen, and wife 

Of Christ eternally ! 

comely queen with glory clad. 
With honor and degree. 

All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 
No spot there is in thee! 

1 long to see Jerusalem, 

The comfort of us all ; 
For thou art fair and beautiful — 

None ill can thee befall. 
In thee, Jerusalem, I say. 

No darkness dare appear — 
No night, no shade, no winter foul — 

No time doth alter there. 

No candle needs, no moon to shine. 

No glittering star to light ; 
For Christ, the King of Righteousness, 

For ever shineth bright. 
A Lamb unspotted, white and pure. 

To thee doth stand in lieu 
Of light — so great the glory is 

Thine Heavenly King to view. 

He is the King of kings, beset 

In midst His servants' sight ; 
And they, His happy household all. 

Do serve Him day and night. 
There, there the choir of angels sing — 

There the supernal sort 
Of citizens, which hence are rid 

From dangers deep, do sport. 



768 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



There be the prudent prophets all, 

The apostles six and six, 
The glorious martyrs in a row. 

And confessors betwixt. 
There doth the crew of righteous men 

And matrons all consist — 
Young men and maids that here on earth 

Their pleasures did resist. 

The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped 

The snare of death and hell, 
Triumph in joy eternally, 

Whereof no tongue can tell ; 
And though the glory of each one 

Doth differ in degree, 
Yet is the joy of all alike 

And common, as we see. 

There love and charity do reign, 

And Christ is all in aU, 
"Whom they most perfectly behold 

In joy celestial. 
They love, they praise — ^they praise, they 
love; 

They "Holy, holy," cry; 
They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, 

But laud continually. 

happy thousand times were I, 
If, after wretched days, 

1 might with listening ears conceive 
Those heavenly songs of praise, 

Which to the Eternal King are sung 

By happy wights above — 
By saved souls and angels sweet, 

Who love the God of love. 

O passing happy were my state, 

Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and King, 

His praises there to sound ; 
And to enjoy my Christ above. 

His favor and His grace. 
According to His promise made. 

Which here I interlace : 

" Father dear," quoth He, "let them 

Which Thou hast put of old 
To me, be there where lo ! I am — 

Thy glory to behold ; 



Which I with Thee, before the world 

Was made in perfect wise. 
Have had — from whence the fountam 
great 

Of glory doth arise." 

Again : "If any man will serve 

Thee, let him feUow me ; 
For where I am, he there, right sure, 

Then shall my servant be." 
And still : " If any man loves me, 

Him loves my Father dear. 
Whom I do love — to him myself 

In glory will appear." 

Lord, take away my misery. 

That then I may be bold 
With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, 

Thy glory to behold ; 
And so in Zion see my King, 

My love, my Lord, my all — 
Where now as in a glass I see. 

There face to face I shall. 

O blessed are the pure in heart — 

Their Sovereign they shaU see ; 
ye most happy, heavenly wights. 

Which of God's household be ! 
O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, 

These gins and fetters strong ; 
For I have dwelt within the tents 

Of Kedar over long. 

Yet search me. Lord, and find me out ! 

Fetch me Thy fold unto. 
That all Thy angels may rejoice, 

While aU Thy will I do. 
mother dear ! Jerusalem ! 

When shall I come to thee ? 
When shall my sorrows have an end, • 

Thy joys when shall I see ? 

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 

To quit me from aU strife, 
That to Thy hill I may attain. 

And dweU there all my life — 
With cherubims and seraphims ' 

And holy souls of men, 

To sing Thy praise, O God of Hosts ! 

Forever and Amen! 

AifOifTMorrs. 



THE FUTUKE PEACE AND GLORY OF THE CHURCH. 



les 



PEACE. 

Mt soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars, 
Where stands a winged sentry, 

All skilful in the wars. 
There, above noise and danger, 

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smfles. 
And One born in a manger 

Commands the beauteous files. 
He is thy gracious friend. 

And (O my soul awake !) 
Did in pure love descend, 

To die here for thy sake. 
If thou canst get but thither. 

There grows the flower of peace — 
The rose that cannot wither — 

Thy fortress, and thy ease. 
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges ; 

For none can thee secure. 
But One who never changes — 

Thy God, thy Life, tliy Cure. 

Henky Yatjghan. 



OF HEAVEN. 

BEAUTEOUS God! uncircumscribed treasure 

Of an eternal pleasure ! 

Thy throne is seated far 

Above the highest star. 

Where Thou preparest a glorious place,^ 

Within the brightness of Thy face. 

For every spirit 

To inherit 

That builds his hopes upon Thy merit. 

And loves Thee with a holy charity. 

What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or 

eyes 
Clear as the morning rise, 
Can speak, or think, or see 
That bright eternity. 

Where the great King's transparent throne 
Is of an entire jasper stone ? 
There the eye 
O' the chrysolite. 
And a sky 

Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase — 
And above all. Thy holy face — 
Makes an eternal charity. 
49 



When Thou Thy jewels up dost bind, that 

day 
Eemember us we pray — 
That where the beryl lies. 
And the crystal 'bove the skies. 
There Thou mayest appoint us place 
Within the brightness of Thy face — 
And our soul 
In the scroll 

Of life and blissfulness enroll, 
That we may praise Thee to eternity. Al- 

lelujah ! 

Jeeemy Taylob. 



WHEiT I CAN EEAD MY TITLE 
CLEAE." 

When I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies, 
I 'U bid farewell to ev'ry fear. 

And wipe my weeping eyes. 

Should earth against my soul engage. 
And hellish darts be hurled. 

Then I can smile at Satan's rage, 
And face a frowning world. 

Let cares like a wild deluge come. 
And storms of sorrow fall — 

May I but safely reach my home. 
My God, my heaven, my all ! 

There shall I bathe my weary soul 

In seas of heavenly rest. 
And not a wave of trouble roll 

Across my peaceful breast. 

Isaac Watts. 



THE FUTURE PEACE AND GLORY OF 
THE CHURCH. 

Heae what God the Lord hath spoken : 

" O my people, faint and few. 
Comfortless, afflicted, broken. 

Fair abodes I build for you ; 
Thorns of heartfelt tribulation 

Shall no more perplex your ways ; 
You shall name your waUs salvation. 

And your gates shaU aU be praise. 



110 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


"There, like streams that feed the garden, 


Where the bleak mountain stood 


Pleasures without end shall flow ; 


All bare and disarrayed. 


For the Lord, your faith rewarding, 


See the wide-branching wood 


All His bounty shall bestow. 


Diffuse its grateful shade ; 


Still in undisturbed possession 


Tall cedars nod. 


Peace and righteousness shall reign ; 


And oaks and pines, 


Never shall you feel oppression. 


And elms and vines 


Hear the voice of war again. 


Confess the God. 




The tyrants of the plain 


" Ye no more your suns descending, 


Their savage chase give o'er — 


Waning moons, no more shall see ; 


No more they rend the slain. 


But, your griefs for ever ending, 


And thirst for blood no more ; 


Find eternal noon in me. 


But infant hands 


God shall rise, and, shining o'er you, 
Change to day the gloom of night ; 


Fierce tigers stroke, 
And lions yoke 
In flowery bands. 


He, the Lord, shall be your glory, 


God your everlasting light." 




William Cowpek. 


when. Almighty Lord, 




Shall these glad scenes arise. 
To verify Thy word, 






And bless our wondering eyes ! 


THE WILDERNESS TRANSFORMED. 


That earth may raise. 




With all its tongues, 


Amazing, beauteous change ! 


United songs 


A world created new ! 


Of ardent praise. 


My thoughts with transport range, 


Philip Doddbidob. 


The lovely scene to view ; 
In all I trace. 






Saviour divine. 




The work is Thine — 


ATT, WELL. 


Be Thine the praise ! 






No seas again shall sever, 




No desert intervene ; 


See crystal fountains play 


No deep, sad-flowing river 


Amidst the burning sands ; 


Shall roll its tide between. 


The river's winding way 




Shines through the thirsty lands ; 


No bleak cliffs, upward towering, 


New grass is seen, 


Shall bound our eager sight ; 


And o'er the meads 


No tempest, darkly lowering. 


Its carpet spreads 


Shall wrap us in its night. 


Of living green. 






Love, and unsevered union 


Where pointed brambles grew, 


Of soul with those we love. 


Entwined with horrid thorn. 


Nearness and glad communion. 


Gay flowers, for ever new. 


Shall be our joy above. 


The painted fields adorn — 




The blushing rose 


No dread of wasting sickness, 


And lily there, 


No thought of ache or pain. 


In union fair 


No fretting hours of weakness. 


Their sweets disclose. 


Shall mar our peace again. 



VENI, CREATOR. ^ m 


'So death, our homes o'ershading, 


Yet to Thee my soul should raise 


Shall e'er our harps unstring ; 


Grateful vows and solemn praise. 


For all is life unfading 


And, when every blessing 's flown, 


In presence of our King. 


Love Thee— for Thyself alone. 


HOKATITJS BONAR. 


Anna L^titia Baebatjld. 


PRAISE TO GOD. 






YENI, CREATOR! 


Peaise to God, immortal praise, 




For the love that crowns our days — 


Ceeatoe Spirit, by whose aid 


Bounteous source of every joy. 


The world's foundations first were laid, 


Let Thy praise our tongues employ ! 


Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour Thy joys on human kind; 




From sin and sorrow set us free, 


For the blessings of the field, 


And make Thy temples worthy Thee ! 


For the stores the gardens yield, 




For the vine's exalted juice. 


source of uncreated light. 


For the generous olive's use ; 


The Father's promised Paraclete ! 




Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 


Flocks that whiten all the plain. 


Our hearts with heavenly love inspire, 


Yellow sheaves of ripened grain. 


Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 


Clouds that drop their fattening dews. 


To sanctify us while we sing ! 


Suns that temperate warmth diffuse — 






Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 


All that Spring, with bounteous hand, 


Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 


Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 


Thou strength of His almighty hand 


All that liberal Autumn pours 


Whose power does heaven and earth com- 


From her rich o'erflowing stores : 


mand ! 




Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 


These to Thee, my God, we owe — 


Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense. 


Source whence all our blessings flow ! 


And crown'st Thy gifts with eloquence 1 


And for these my soul shall raise 




Grateful vows and solemn praise. 


Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 




But 0, inflame and fire our hearts ! 


Yet should rising whirlwinds tear 


Our frailties help, our vice control — 


From its stem the ripening ear — 


Submit the senses to the soul ; 


Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 


And when rebellious they are grown, 


Drop her green untimely fruit — 


Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down. 


Should the vine put forth no more, 


Chase from our minds the infernal foe. 


Kor the olive yield her store — 


And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 


Though the sickening flocks should fall, 


And, lest our feet should step astray, 


And the herds desert the stall — 


Protect and guide us in the way. 


Should Thine altered hand restrain 


Make us eternal truths receive, 


The early and the latter rain, 


And practise all that we believe ; 


Blast each opening bud of joy. 


Give us Thyself, that we may see 


And the rising year destroy ; 


The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 



112 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Immortal honor, endless fame, 


As flowers their opening leaves display, 


Attend the Almighty Father's name ! 


And glad drink in the solar fire, 


The Saviour Son he glorified, 


So may we catch Thy every ray. 


Who for lost man's redemption died ! 


So may Thy influence us inspire — 


And equal adoration he, 


Thou beam of the eternal beam ! 


Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! 


Thou purging fire. Thou quickening flame ! 


St. Ambbose. (Latin.) 


Gebhabd Tebsteegen. (GermaTi ) 


Paraphrase of John Drtden. 


Translation of John Wesley. 




THE LOED THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 


HYMN- OF PKAISE. 


The Lord is my Shepherd, nor want shall I 




know; 


Lo ! God is here ! let ns adore, 


I feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest ; 


And own how dreadful is this place ; 


He leadeth my soul where the still waters 


Let all within us feel His power, 


flow, 


And silent bow before His face ! 


Restores me when wandering, redeems 


Who know His power, His grace who prove, 


when oppressed. 


Serve Him with awe, with reverence love. 






Through the valley and shadow of death 




though I stray. 


Lo ! God is here ! Him day and night 


Since Thou art my guardian no evil I fear; 


Th' united choirs of angels sing ; 


Thy rod shall defend me. Thy staff be my 


To Him, enthroned above all height. 


stay; 


Heaven's host their noblest praises bring ; 


ISTo harm can befall with my Comforter 


Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song. 


near. 


Who praise Thee with a stammering tongue. 






In the midst of affliction my table is spread ; 




With blessings unmeasured my cup run- 


Gladly the toils of earth we leave. 


neth o'er ; 


Wealth, pleasure, fame, for Thee alone ; 


With perfume and oil Thou anointest my 


To Thee our will, soul, flesh, we give — 


head * 


take ! seal them for Thine own ! 


0! what shall I ask of Thy Providence 


Thou art the God, Thou art the Lord- 


more? 


Be Thou by all Thy works adored ! 






Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God ! 




Still follow my steps till I meet Thee above : 


Being of beings ! may our praise 


I seek, by the path wliich my forefathers trod 


Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill ; 


Through the land of their sojourn. Thy 


Still may we stand before Thy face. 


kingdom of love. 

James Montgobieey. 


Still hear and do Thy sovereign will ; 


To thee may all our thoughts arise — 
Ceaseless, accepted sacrifice. 








SOKNET. 


In Thee we move ; all things of Thee 




Are full, Thou source and life of all ; 


The prayers I make will then be sweet in- 


Thou vast unfathomable sea I 


deed, 


(Fall prostrate, lost in wonder fall, 


If Thou the spirit give by which I pray ; 


Ye sons of men ! For God is man !) 


My unassisted heart is barren clay, 


All may we lose, so Thee we gain ! 


That of its native self can nothing feed. 



THE POET'S HYMN FOR HIMSELF. 



11Z 



Of good and pious works Thou art the seed, 
That quickens only where thou say'st it may. 
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way, 
No man can find it ; Father ! thou must lead. 
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into 

my mind 
By which such virtue may in me he bred 
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
That I may have the power to sing of Thee, 
And sound Thy praises everlastingly. 

Michael Angelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of Samttel "Woedswobth. 



PEAISE. 

Come, come ! with sacred lays 
Let us sound the Almighty's praise ! 
Hither bring, in true consent, 
Heart, and voice, and instrument. 
Let the orpharion sweet 
With the harp and viol meet ; 
Let your voices tune the lute ; 
Let not tongue nor string be mute ; 
Nor a creature dumb be found 
That hath either voice or sound ! 

Let such things as do not live, 

In still music praises give ! 

Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep 

On the earth, or in the deep ; 

Loud aloft your voices strain, 

Beasts, and monsters of the main ; 

Birds, your warbling treble sing ; 

Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; 
Sun and moon, exalted higher, 
And you, stars, augment the choir ! 

Come, ye sons of human race. 
In this chorus take your place ! 
And amid this mortal throng 
Be you masters of the song. 
Angels and celestial powers. 
Be the noblest tenor yours ! 
Let, in praise of God, the sound 
Eun a never-ending round. 

That our holy hymn may be 

Everlasting as is He. 



From the earth's vast hollow womb 
Music's deepest bass shall come ; 
Sea and floods, from shore to shore, 
Shall the counter-tenor roar ; 
To this concert, when we sing, 
Whistling winds, your descant bring. 
Which may bear the sound above 
Where the orb of fire doth move, 
And so climb from sphere to sphere, 
TiU our song the Almighty hear ! 

So shall He, from heaven's high tower. 
On the earth His blessings shower ; 
All this huge wide orb we see 
Shall one choir, one temple be ; 
There our voices we will rear, 
Till we fill it every where. 
And enforce the fiends, that dwell 
In the air, to sink to hell. 

Then, come ! with sacred lays 
Let us sound the Almighty's praise. 

Geoegb Witheb. 



THE POET'S HYMN" FOR HIMSELF. 

Geeat Almighty, King of heaven, 
And one God in persons three — 
Honor, praise, and thanks be given 
Now and evermore to Thee, 
Who hast more for Thine prepared 
Than by words can be declared! 

By Thy mercies I was taken 

From the pits of miry clay, 

Wherein, wretched and forsaken, 

Helpless, hopeless too, I lay ; 

And those comforts Thou didst give me 
Whereof no man can deprive me. 

By Thy grace the passions, troubles, 
And what most my heart oppressed, 
Have appeared as airy bubbles, 
Dreams, or sufierings but in jest; 
And with profit that hath ended 
Which my foes for harm intended. 

Those afflictions and those terrors, 
Which did plagues at first appear. 
Did but show me what mine errors 
And mine imperfections were ; 



774 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


But tliey wretched could not make me, 


III. 


Nor from Thy affection shake me. 


Hear, Lord and God, my cries ! 




Mark my foes' unjust abusing; 


Therefore as Thy blessed Psalmist, 


And illuminate mine eyes. 


When his warfares had an end, 


Heavenly beams in them infusing — 


And his days were at the calmest, 


Lest my woes, too great to bear, 


Psalms and hymns of praises penned — 


And too infinite to number. 


So my rest, by Thee enjoyed, 


Eock me soon, 'twixt hope and fear, 


To Thy praise I have employed. 


Into death's eternal slumber — 


Lord ! accept my poor endeavor, 


IV. 


And assist Thy servant so. 


Lest my foes their boasting make : 


In well doing to persever, 


Spite of right, on him we trample ; 


That more perfect I may grow — 


And a pride in mischief take. 


Every day more prudent, meeker, 


Hastened by my sad example. 


And of Thee a faithful seeker. 


V. 


Let no passed sin or folly. 


As for me, I '11 ride secure 


Nor a future fault in me. 


At Thy mercy's sacred anchor ; 


Make unfruitful or unholy 


And, undaunted, wiU endure 


What I offer now to Thee; 


Fiercest storms of wrong and rancour. 


But with favor and compassion 


VI. 


Cure and cover each transgression. 






These black clouds will overblow — 


And with Israel's royal singer 


Sunshine shall have his returning ; 


J o 

Teach me so faith's hymns to sing — 


And my grief-dulled heart, I know, 


So Thy ten-stringed law to finger. 


Into mirth shall change his mourning. 


And such music thence to bring — 


Therefore I '11 rejoice, and sing 


That by grace I may aspire 
To Thy blessed angel choir! 


Hymns to God, in sacred measure, 
Who to happy pass will bring 


Geokge Witheb. 


My just hopes, at His good pleasure. 




Fkancis Datison. 


— • — 


, 


PSALM xm. 






PSALM XYHL 


I. 


PAET FIEST. 


LoED, how long, how long wilt Thou 




Quite forget, and quite neglect me ? 


God, my strength and fortitude, of force I 


How long, with a frowning brow. 


must love Thee ! 


WUt Thou from Thy sight reject me? 


Thou art my castle and defence in my neces- 




sity— 


II. 


My God, my rock in whom I trust, the ma- 


How long shall I seek a way 


ker of my wealth, 


Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed. 


My refuge, buckler, and my shield, the horn 


Where my grieved mind, night and day. 


of all my health. 


Is with thinking tired and vexed? 




How long shall my scornful foe, 


When I sing laud unto the Lord most worthy 


On my fall his greatness placing. 


to be served. 


Build upon my overthrow, 


Then from my foes I am right sure that I 


And be graced by my disgracing? 


shall be preserved. 



PSALM XX. 



115 



The pangs of death did compass me, and 

bound me every where ; 
The flowing waves of wickedness did put me 

in great fear. 

The sly and subtle snares of hell were round 

about me set ; 
And for my death there was prepared a deadly 

trapping net. 
I, thus beset with pain and grief, did pray to 

God for grace ; 
And He forthwith did hear my plaint out of 

His holy place. 

Such is His power that in His wrath He made 

the earth to quake — 
Yea, the foundation of the mount of Basan 

for to shake. 
And from His nostrils came a smoke, when 

kindled was His ire ; 
And from His mouth came kindled coals of 

hot consuming fire. 

The Lord descended from above, and bowed 
the heavens high ; 

And underneath His feet He cast the darkness 
of the sky. 

On cherubs and on cherubims full royally He 
rode; 

And on the wings of all the winds came fly- 
ing all abroad. 

Thomas Steenhold. 



PSALM XIX. 

The heavens declare Thy glory, Lord ! 

In every star Thy wisdom shines ; 
But when our eyes behold Thy word, 

We read Thy name in fairer lines. 

The rolling sun, the changing light. 

And nights and days Thy power confess ; 

But the blest volume Thou hast writ 
Eeveals Thy justice and Thy grace. 

Sun, moon, and stars convey Thy praise 
Bound the whole earth, and never stand ; 

So, when Thy truth begun its race 
It touched and glanced on every land. 



IlTor shall Thy spreading gospel rest 

Till through the world Thy truth has run ; 

Till Christ has all the nations blest 
That see the light or feel the sun. 

Great Sun of Righteousness, arise ! 

Bless the dark world with heavenly light ! 
Thy gospel makes the simple wise — 

Thy laws are pure. Thy judgments right. 

Thy noblest wonders here we view, 
In souls renewed, and sins forgiven ; 

Lord, cleanse my sins, my soul renew. 
And make Thy word my guide to heaven ! 
Isaac "Watts. 



PSALM XX. 

Some put their trust in chariots, 
And horses some rely on ; 

But God alone 

Our help we own — 
God is the strength of Sion. 

His name we will remember 
In every sore temptation. 

And feel its powers ; 

For Christ is ours, 
With all His great salvation. 

We are His ransomed people. 
And He that bought will have us — 

Secure from harm. 

While Jesu's arm 
Is still stretched out to save us. 

He, out of all our troubles, 
Shall mightily deliver, 
And then receive 
Us up to live 
And reign with Him for ever. 

Chaeles Wesley. 



116 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


TSMM XXIII. 


PSALM xxni. 


I. 


Lo, my Shepherd's hand divine ! 


God, who the universe dotli hold 


Want shall never more be mine. 


In His fold, 


In a pasture fair and large 


Is my shepherd, kind and heedful— 


He shall feed His happy charge, 


Is my shepherd, and doth keep 


And my couch with tenderest care 


Me, His sheep, 


'Midst the springing grass prepare. 


Still supplied with all things needful. 


When I faint with Summer's heat, 




He shall lead my weary feet 


n. 


To the streams that, still and slow, 


He feeds me in His fields, which been 


Through the verdant meadows flow. 


Fresh and green, 


He my soul anew shall frame ; 


Mottled with Spring's flowery painting — 


And, His mercy to proclaim. 


Thro' which creep, with murmuring crooks. 


When through devious paths I stray, 


Crystal brooks, 


Teach my steps the better way. 


To refresh my spirit's fainting. 


Though the dreary vale I tread 




By the shades of death o'erspread ; 


m. 


There I walk from terror free. 


When my soul from heaven's way 


While my every wish I see 


Went astray, 


By Thy rod and staff supplied — 


With earth's vanities seduced, 


This my guard, and that my guide. 


For His name's sake, kindly, He 


While my foes are gazing on. 


Wandering me 


Thou Thy favoring care hast shown ; 


To His holy fold reduced— 


Thou my plenteous board hast spread ; 




Thou with oil refreshed my head ; 


rv. 


Filled by Thee, my cup o'erflows ; 


Yea, though I stray through death's vale. 


For Thy love no hmit knows. 


Where his pale 


Constant, to my latest end. 


Shades did on each side enfold me, 


This my footsteps shall attend, 


Dreadless, having Thee for guide. 


And shall bid Thy hallowed dome 


Should I bide ; 


Yield me an eternal home. 


For Thy rod and staff uphold me. 

Y. 

Thou my board with messes large 


James Meeeick. 




Dost surcharge ; 


PSAT-M XXX. 


My bowls full of wine Thou pourest ; 




And before mine enemies' 


I. 


Envious eyes 


LoED, to Thee, while I am living. 


■Ralm upon my head Thou showerest. 


Will I sing hymns of thanksgiving ; 




For Thou hast drawn me from a gulf of woes. 


VI. 


So that my foes 


Keither dures Thy bounteous grace 


Do not deride me. 


For a space ; 


II. 


But it knows nor bound nor measure : 




So my days, to my life's end. 


When Thine aid, Lord, I implored. 


I shall spend 


Then by Thee was I restored ; 


In Thy com-ts with heavenly pleasure. 


My mournful heart with joy Thou straight 


Feancis Davison. 


didst fill. 



PSALM XLVI 



111 



So that none ill 
Doth now betide me. 

Ill 

My soul, grievously distressed, 
And with death well-nigh oppressed, 
From death's devouring jaws, Lord, Thou 
didst save, 

And from the grave 
My soul deliver. 



O, all ye that e'er had savor 
Of God's everlasting favor, 
Oome ! come and help me grateful praises sing 

To the world's King, 

And my life's giver. 

v. 

For His anger never lasteth, 
And His favor never wasteth. 
Though sadness be thy guest in sullen night, 
The cheerful light 
"Will cheerful make thee. 



Lulled asleep with charming pleasures, 
And base, earthly, fading treasures, 
Eest, peaceful soul, said I, in happy state — 
No storms of fate 
Shall ever shake thee ! 

VII. 

For Jehovah's grace unbounded 
Hath my greatness surely founded ; 
And hath my state as strongly fortified. 

On every side. 

As rocky mountains. 



But away His face God turned — 
I was troubled then, and mourned ; 
Then thus I poured forth prayers and doleful 
cries. 

With weeping eyes. 
Like watery fountains : 



In my blood there is no profit ; 
If I die, what good comes of it ? 



Shall rotten bones or senseless dust express 
Thy thankfulness. 
And works of wonder ? 



O then hear me, prayers forthpouring, 
Drowned in tears, from moist eyes show- 
ering; 
Have mercy, Lord, on me ; my burden ease. 
If Thee it please, 
Which I groan under! 

XI. 

Thus prayed I, and God, soon after, 
Changed my mourning into laughter ; 
Mine ashy sackcloth, mark of mine annoy, 

To robes of joy 

Eftsoons He turned. 

xn. 
Therefore, harp and voice, cease never, 
But sing sacred lays for ever 
To great Jehovah, mounted on the skies, 
Who dried mine eyes 
When as I mourned. 

rBANcis Davison. 



PSALM XLYI. 

God is the refuge of His saints. 

When storms of sharp distress invade ; 

Ere we can offer our complaints, 
Behold Him present with His aid. 

Let mountains from their seats be hurled 
Down to the deep, and buried there — 

Convulsions shake the solid world ; 
Our faith shall never yield to fear. 

Loud may the troubled ocean roar ; 

In sacred peace our souls abide, 
While every nation, every shore, 

Trembles and dreads the swelling tide. 

There is a stream whose gentle flow 
Supplies the city of our God — 

Life, love, and joy still gliding through, 
And watering our divine abode ; 



IIS POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


That sacred stream Thine holy word, 


Say : How wonderful Thy deeds ! 


That all our raging fear controls ; 


Lord, Thy power all power exceeds ! 


Sweet peace Thy promises afford, 


Conquest on Thy sword doth sit — 


And give new strength to fainting souls. 


Trembling foes through fear submit. 




Let the many-peopled earth, 


Sion enjoys her Monarch's love. 


All of high and humble birth, 


Secure against a threat'ning hour ; 


Worship our Eternal King — 


Nor can her firm foundations move, 


Hymns unto His honor sing. 


Built on His truth, and armed with power. 


Come, and see what God hath wrought — 


Isaac Watts. 


Terrible to human thought ! 




He the billows did divide, 
Walled with waves on either side. 






While we passed safe and dry ; 


PSAT,¥ LXy. 


Then our souls were rapt with joy. 




Endless His dominion — 


SECOND PAPwT. 






All beholding from His throne. 


'T IS hy Thy strength the mountains stand. 


Let not those who hate us most, 


God of eternal power ! 


Let not the rebellious, boast. 


The sea grows calm at Thy command, 


Bless the Lord ! His praise be sung 


And tempests cease to roar. 


While an ear can hear a tongue ! 




He our feet establisheth ; 


Thy morning light and evening shade 


He our souls redeems from death. 


Successive comforts bring ; 


Lord, as silver purified. 


Thy plenteous fruits make harvest glad — 


Thou hast with afifliction tried; 


Thy flowers adorn the Spring. 


Thou hast driven into the net, 


Seasons and times, and moons and hours. 


Burdens on our shoulders set. 


Heaven, earth, and air, are Thine ; 


Trod on by their horses' hooves — 


When clouds distil in fruitful showers. 


Theirs whom pity never moves — 


The author is divine. 


We through fire, with flames embraced. 




We through raging floods have passed ; 


Those wandering cisterns in the sky, 


Yet by Thy conducting hand 


Borne by the winds around, 


Brought into a wealthy land. 


With watery treasures well supply 


I will to Thy house repair. 


The furrows of the ground. 


Worship, and Thy power declare — 


The thirsty ridges drink their fill, 

And ranks of corn appear ; 
Thy ways abound with blessings still — 

Thy goodness crowns the year. 


Offerings on Thy altar lay. 
All my vows devoutly pay. 
Uttered with my heart and tongue, 
When oppressed with powerful wrong. 
Eatlings I will sacrifice; 


Isaac Watts. 


Incense in perfume shall rise — 




Bullocks, shaggy goats, and rams 
Offered up in sacred flames. 





PS ATM T.XYL 


You who great Jehovah fear, 




Come, come, you blest! and hear 


Happy sons of Israel, 


What for me the Lord hath wrought, 


Who in pleasant Canaan dwell. 


Then when near to ruin brought. 


Fill the air with shouts of joy — 


Fervently to Him I cried ; 


Shouts redoubled from the sky. 


I His goodness magnified. 


Sing the great Jehovah's praise, 


If I vices should affect. 


Trophies to His glory raise; 


Would not He my prayers reject? 



PSALM C. 



119 



But the Lord my prayers hath heard 
Which my tongue with tears preferred. 
Source of mercy, be Thou blest, 
That hast granted my request ! 

Geoege Sandys. 



PSALM LXXII. 

FIRST PAET. 

Great God, whose universal sway 
The known and unknown worlds obey, 
Now give the kingdom to Thy Son — 
Extend His power, exalt His throne ! 

Thy sceptre well becomes His hands — • 
All heaven submits to His commands ; 
His justice shall avenge the poor, 
And pride and rage prevail no more. 

With power He vindicates the just, 
And treads the oppressor in the dust ; 
His worship and His fear shall last 
Till hours and years, and time, be past. 

As rain on meadows newly mown, 
So shall He send his influence down ; 
His grace on fainting souls distils. 
Like heavenly dew on thirsty hills. 

The heathen lands that lie beneath 
The shades of overspreading death, 
Revive at His first dawning light, 
And deserts blossom at the sight. 

The saints shall flourish in His days, 
Dressed in the robes of joy and praise ; 
Peace, like a river, from His throne. 
Shall flow to nations yet unknown. 

Isaac Watts. 



PSALM xon. 

Thou who art enthroned above — 
Thou by whom we live and move ! 
how sweet, how excellent, 
Is 't, with tongue and heart's consent, 
Thankful hearts, and joyful tongues, 
To renown Thy name in songs — 



When the morning paints the skies. 
When the sparkling stars arise. 
Thy high favors to rehearse, 
Thy firm faith in grateful verse ! 

Take the lute and violin ; 
Let the solemn harp begin — 
Instruments strung with ten strings — 
WhUe the silver cymbal rings. 

From Thy works my joy proceeds ; 
How I triumph in Thy deeds ! 
Who Thy wonders can express? 
All Thy thoughts are fathomless — 
Hid from men, in knowledge blind — 
Hid from fools, to vice inclined. 
Who that tyrant sin obey. 
Though they spring like flowers in May, 
Parched with heat, and nipped with frost, 
Soon shall fade, for ever lost. 

Lord, thou art most great, most high — 
Such from all eternity. 
Perish shall Thy enemies — 
Rebels that against Thee rise. 
All who in their sins delight 
Shall be scattered by Thy might ; 
But Thou shalt exalt my horn, 
Like a youthful unicorn ; 
Fresh and fragrant odors shed 
On Thy crowned prophet's head. 

I shall see my foe's defeat, 
Shortly hear of their retreat ; 
But the just, like palms, shall flourish 
Which the plains of Judah nourish — 
Like tall cedars mounted on 
Cloud-ascending Lebanon. 
Plants set in Thy court, below 
Spread their roots, and upwards grow ; 
Fruit in their old age shall bring — 
Ever fat and flourishing. 
This God's justice celebrates — 
He, my Rock, injustice hates. 

Geoege Sandys. 



PSALM 0. 

With one consent let all the earth 
To God their cheerful voices raise — 

Glad homage pay with awful mirth. 
And sing before Him songs of praise — 



ISO POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Convinced that He is God alone, 


As a watchman waits for day, 


From whom both we and all proceed — 


And looks for light, and looks again. 


We whom He chooses for His own, 


When the night grows old and gray, 


The flock which He vouchsafes to feed. 


To be relieved he calls amain : 




So look, so wait, 


enter then His temple gate. 


So long mine eyes, 


Thence to his courts devoutly press ; 


To see my Lord, 


And still your grateful hymns repeat, 


My Sun, arise. 


And still His name with praises bless. 






Wait, ye saints, wait on our Lord — 


For He 's the Lord supremely good. 


For from His tongue sweet mercy flows. 


His mercy is forever sure ; 


Wait on His cross, wait on His word — 


His truth, which all times firmly stood, 


Upon that tree redemption grows : 


To endless ages shall endure. 


He will redeem 


Tate and Beady. 


His Israel 


^ 


From sin and wrath, 




From death and hell. 




Phineas Fletcheb. 


PSAJLM cxyii 

Feom all that dwell below the skies ' - 






Let the Creator's praise arise ; 


HYMtT, FEOM PSALM CXLVllL 


Let the Kedeemer's name be sung 




Through every land, by every tongue. 


Begin, my soul, the exalted lay, 


Eternal are Thy mercies, Lord — 


Let each enraptured thought obey, 


Eternal truth attends Thy word ; 

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore. 


And praise the Almighty's name ; 
Lo ! heaven and earth, and seas and skies, 


nn«ii 1 11 • 1 1 


In one melodious concert rise. 


Till suns shall rise and set no more. 




Isaac Watts. 


To swell the inspiring theme. 
Te fields of light, celestial plains. 






Where gay transporting beauty reigns. 


PSALM CXXX. 


Ye scenes divinely fair ! 




Your Maker's wondrous power proclaim — 


Feom the deeps of grief and fear 


Tell how He formed your shining frame. 


Lord ! to Thee my soul repairs ; 


And breathed the fluid air. 


From Thy Heaven bow down Thine ear — 




Let Thy mercy meet my prayers : 
! if Thou mark 'st 


Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound ! 


What 's done amiss, 


While all the adoring thrones around 


What soul so pure 


His boundless mercy sing : 


1 

Can see Thy bliss ? 


Let every listening saint above 
Wake all the tuneful soul of love. 


But with Thee sweet mercy stands. 


And touch the sweetest string. 


Sealing pardons, working fear ; 




Wait, my soul, wait on His hands — 


Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ; 


Wait, mine eye ; ! wait, mine ear ! 


Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire. 


If He His eye 


The mighty chorus aid ; 


Or tongue affords, 


Soon as gray evening gilds the plain, 


Watch all His looks, 


Thou, moon, protract the melting strain, 


Catch all His words ! 


And praise Him in the shade. 



PSALM CXLYIII. 



781 



Thou heaven of heavens, His vast abode, 
Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God ! 

Who called yon worlds from night ; 
"Ye shades, dispel! " — the Eternal said, 
At once the involving darkness fled, 

And nature sprung to light. 

Whate'er a blooming world contains 
That wings the air, that skims the plains. 

United praise bestow ; 
Ye dragons, sound His awful name 
To heaven aloud ; and roar acclaim. 

Ye swelling deeps below ! 

Let every element rejoice ; 

Ye thunders, burst with awful voice 

To Him who bids you roll ; 
His praise in softer notes declare. 
Each whispering breeze of yielding air. 

And breathe it to the soul ! 

To Him, ye graceful cedars, bow ; 
Ye towering mountains, bending low, 

Your great Creator own ! 
Tell, when affrighted nature shook. 
How Sinai kindled at His look. 

And trembled at His frown. 

Ye fl.ocks that haunt the humble vale, 
Ye insects fluttering on the gale. 

In mutual concourse rise ; 
Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom. 
And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, 

In incense to the skies ! 

"Wake, aU ye mounting tribes, and sing — 
Ye plumy warblers of the Spring, 

Harmonious anthems raise 
To Him who shaped your finer mould. 
Who tipped your glittering wings with 
gold. 

And tuned your voice to praise ! 

Let man — by nobler passions swayed — 
The feeling heart, the judging head. 

In heavenly praise employ ; 
Spread His tremendous name around, 
TiU heaven's broad arch rings back the 
sound, 

The general burst of joy. 



Ye, whom the charms of grandeur please, 
Nursed on the downy lap of ease, 

Eall prostrate at His throne ; 
Ye princes, rulers, all, adore — 
Praise Him, ye kings, who make your 
power 

An image of His own ! 

Ye fair, by nature formed to move, 

O praise the Eternal Source of love. 

With youth's enlivening fire ; 

Let age take up the tuneful lay. 

Sigh His blessed name — then soar away, 

And ask an angel's lyre ! 

John Ogilvie. 



PSALM CXLYIII. 

You who dwell above the skies. 

Free from human miseries — 

You whom highest heaven embowers, 

Praise the Lord with aU your powers ! 

Angels, your clear voices raise — 

Him your heavenly armies praise ; 

Sun and moon, with borrowed light ; 

All you sparkling eyes of night ; 

Waters hanging in the air ; 

Heaven of heavens — His praise declare 

His deserved praise record. 

His who made you by His word — 

Made you evermore to last. 

Set you bounds not to be passed ! 

Let the earth His praise resound ; 

Monstrous whales, and seas profound ; 

Yapors, lightnings, hail, and snow ; 

Storms which, when He bids them, blow ; 

Elowery hills and mountains high ; 

Cedars, neighbors to the sky ; 

Trees that fruit in season yield ; 

All the cattle of the field ; 

Savage beasts, all creeping things ; 

All that cut the air with wings ; 

You who awful sceptres sway. 

You inured to obey — 

Princes, judges of the earth. 

All of high and humble birth ; 

Youths and virgins flourishing 

In the beauty of your spring ; 

You who bow with age's weight, 

You who were but born of late ; 



782 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Praise His name with one consent. 

0, how great ! how excellent ! 

Than the earth profounder far, 

Higher than the highest star, 

He will us to honor raise ; 

You, His saints, resound His praise — 

You who are of Jacob's race, 

And united to his grace ! 

Geoege Sandys, 



AN ODE. 

How are Thy servants blest, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide. 

Their help Omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote. 

Supported by Thy care. 
Through burning climes I passed unhurt. 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every toil, 

Made every region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed 

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, my soul, devoutly think, 

How with affrighted eyes 
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep 

In all its horrors rise ! 

Confusion dwelt in every face. 

And fear in every heart, 
"When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free ; 
While in the confidence of prayer 

My soul took hold on Thee. 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 

High on the broken wave ; 
I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the wind retired, 

Obedient to Thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at Thy command. 

At Thy command was still. 



In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths. 

Thy goodness I '11 adore — 
And praise Thee for Thy mercies past. 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if Thou preserv'st my life. 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to Thee. 

Joseph Addison. 



THE CKEATOR AKD CEEATUEES. 

God is a name my soul adores — 
The Almighty Three, the Eternal One ! 

Nature and grace, with all their powers. 
Confess the infinite Unknown. 

From Thy great self Thy being springs — 

Thou art Thy own original, 
Made up of uncreated things ; 

And self-suflulcience bears them aU. 

Thy voice produced the seas and spheres. 
Bid the waves roar, and planets shine ; 

But nothing like Thyself appears. 
Through all these spacious works of Thine. 

Still restless nature dies and grows — 
From change to change the creatures run ; 

Thy being no succession knows. 
And all Thy vast designs are one. 

A glance of Thine runs through the globes, 
Kules the bright world, and moves their 
frame ; 

Broad sheets of light compose Thy robes ; 
Thy guards are formed of living flame. 

Thrones and dominions round Thee fall. 
And worship in submissive forms ; 

Thy presence shakes this lower ball. 
This little dwelling-place of worms. 

How shall affrighted mortals dare 
To sing Thy glory or Thy grace — 

Beneath Thy feet we lie so far. 
And see but shadows of Thy face ! 



LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS. 783 


Who can behold the blazing light— 


By force of arms we nothing can — 


Who can approach consuming flame? 


Full soon were we down-ridden ; 


itTone but Thy wisdom knows Thy might — 


But for us fights the proper man. 


None but Thy word can speak Thy name. 


Whom God himself hath bidden. 


Isaac Watts. 


Ask ye, Who is this same ? 




Christ Jesus is His name. 
The Lord Zebaoth's Son- 


* 




He and no other one 


A H^MK 


Shall conquer in the battle. 


When all thy mercies, my God, 


And were this world all devils o'er, 


My rising soul surveys, 


And watching to devour us, 


Transported with the view, I 'm lost 


We lay it not to heart so sore — 


In wonder, love, and praise. 


Not they can overpower us. 




And let the prince of ill 


how shall words with equal warmth 


Look grim as e'er he will, 


The gratitude declare. 


He harms us not a whit ; 


That glows within my ravished breast? — 


For why ? His doom is writ — 


But Thou canst read it there ! 


A word shall quickly slay him. 


Thy providence my life sustained, 


God's word, for all their craft and force. 


And all my wants redrest, 


One moment will not linger ; 


When in the silent womb I lay. 


But, spite of hell, shall have its course — 


And hung upon the breast. 


'T is written by His finger. 


O Jr 


And though they take our life. 




Goods, honor, children, wife, 


To all my weak complaints and cries 


Yet is their profit small ; 


Thy mercy lent an ear. 


These things shall vanish all — 


Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 


The city of God remaineth. 


To form themselves in prayer. 


Martik Ltjthkr. (German.) 




Translation of Thomas Caelylb. 


Unnumbered comforts to my soul 
Thy tender care bestowed, 




* 


Before my infant heart conceived 




From whence those comforts flowed. 


LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DAEKNESS. 


Joseph Addison. 






God moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform ; 


* 




He plants his footsteps in the sea, 


A SAFE STEONGHOLD. 


And rides upon the storm. 


A SAFE stronghold our God is still. 


Deep in unfathomable mines 


A trusty shield and weapon ; 


Of never-failing skiU, 


He '11 help us clear from all the ill 


He treasures up his bright designs. 


That hath us now o'ertaken. 


And works His sovereign will. 


The ancient prince of hell 




Hath risen with purpose fell ; 


Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! 


Strong mail of craft and power 


The clouds ye so much dread 


He weareth in this hour — 


Are big with mercy, and .shall break 


On earth is not his fellow. 


In blessings on your head. 



784 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
But trust Him for His grace : 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
And scan His work in vain : 

God is His own interpreter. 
And He will make it plain. 

William Cowpee. 



SEAKOH AFTER GOD. 

I SOUGHT Thee round about, Thou my God ! 

In thine abode. 
I said unto the earth : " Speak! art thou He? " 

She answered me : 
"I am not." — I enquired of creatures all, 

In general, 
Contained therein — ^they with one voice pro- 
claim 
That none amongst them challenged such a 
name. 

I asked the seas and all the deeps below. 

My God to know ; 
I asked the reptiles, and whatever is 

In the abyss — 
Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 

Enquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line can sound. 
The God I sought for was not to be found. 

I asked the air, if that were He ; but 

It told me no. 
I from the towering eagle to the wren 

Demanded then 
If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were 
such; 

But they all, much 
Offended with ray question, in full choir 
Answered : " To find thy God thou must look 
higher." 



I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars — 
but they 

Said: "We obey 
The God thou seekest." I asked, what eye 
or ear 

Could see or hear — 
What in the world I might descry or know 

Above, below ; 
— With an unanimous voice, aU these things 

said: 
"We are not God, but we by Him were 
made." 

I asked the world's great universal mass, 

If that God was ; 
Which with a mighty and strong voice ro 
plied. 

As stupefied : 
" I am not He, O man ! for know that I 

By Him on high 
Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 
And swayed by Him, by whom I was created." 

I sought the court ; but smooth-tongued flat- 
tery there 

Deceived each ear ; 
In the thronged city there was selling, buy- 
ing, 

Swearing and lying ; 
I' the country, craft in simpleness arrayed — 

And then I said : 
" Vain is my search, although my pains be 

great — 
Where my God is there can be no deceit." 

A scrutiny within myself I, then. 

Even thus, began : 
" man, what art thou ? " — What more could 
I say 

Than dust and clay — 
Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, 

That cannot last — 
Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn. 
Formed from that earth to which I must re- 
turn? 

I asked myself, what this great God might 
be 

That fashioned me; 
I answered : The all-potent, solely immense 

Surpassing sense — 



ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. 785 


Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal. 


What peaceful hours I once enjoyed—- 


Lord over all ; 


How sweet their memory still ! 


The only terrible, strong, just, and true, 


But they have left an aching void 


Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 


The world can never fill. 


He is the well of life, for He doth give 


Keturn, holy Dove, return I 


To all that live 


Sweet messenger of rest : 


Both breath and being. He is the Creator 


I hate the sins that made Thee mourn, 


Both of the water, 


And drove Thee from my breast. 


Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that sub- 




sist 


The dearest idol I have known. 


He hath the list— 


Whate'er that idol be. 


Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims. 


Help me to tear it from Thy throne. 


He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their 


And worship only Thee. 


names- 


William Cowphb. 


And now, my God, by Thine illumining grace, 






Thy glorious face 




(So far forth as it may discovered be) 


ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. 


Methinkslsee; 




And though invisible and infinite^ 


Cax I see another's woe. 


To human sight 


And not be in sorrow too ? 


Thou, in Thy mercy, justice, truth, appear- 


Can I see another's grief, 


«st — 


And not seek for kind relief? 


In which to our weak sense Thou comest 




nearest. 






Can I see a falling tear. 


make us apt to seek, and quick to find, 


And not feel my sorrow's share ? 


Thou God, most kind! 


Can a father see his child 


Give us love, hope, and faith in Thee to trust, 


Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ? 


Thou God, most just] 




Eemit all our ofiences, we entreat — 


Can a mother sit and hear 


Most Good, most Great ! 


An infant groan, an infant fear? 


Grant that our willing, though unworthy 


'No I no ! never can it be — 


quest 


Never, never can it be ! 


May, through Thy grace, admit us 'mongst 




the blest. 




Thomas Hbywood. 


And can He who smiles on all, 


» 


Hear the wren with sorrows small. 




Hear the small bird's grief and care, 




Hear the woes that infants bear, — 


WALKIN^G WITH GOD. 


7 


! FOR a closer walk with God, 


And not sit beside the nest, 


A calm and heavenly frame. 


Pouring pity in their breast ? 


A light to shine upon the road 


And not sit the cradle near. 


That leads me to the Lamb ! 


Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 


Where is the blessedness I knew 


And not sit both night and day, 


When first I saw the Lord? 


Wiping all our tears away ? 


Where is the soul-refreshing view 


0, no ! never can it be — 


Of Jesus and His word ? 
50 


Never, never can it be I 



786 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


He doth give His joy to all ; 




He becomes an infant small, 


GOD IS LOVE. 


He becomes a man of woe, 




He doth feel the sorrow too. 


All I feel, and hear, and see, 




God of love, is f uU of Thee. 


Think not thou canst sigh a sigh. 


Earth, with her ten thousand flowers ; 


And thy Maker is not nigh ; 


Air, with all its beams and showers ; 


Think not thou canst weep a tear, 


Ocean's infinite expanse ; 


And thy Maker is not near. 


Heaven's resplendent countenance — 




All around, and all above. 


! He gives to us His joy. 


Hath this record : God is love. 


That our griefs He may destroy. 




Till our grief is fled and gone 


Sounds among the vales and hills, 


He doth sit by us and moan. 


In the woods, and by the rills, 




Of the breeze, and of the bird, 


WiLUAM Blake. 


By the gentle murmur stirred— 


^ 


All these songs, beneath, above^ 


' 




Have one burden : God is love. 


"HOW GKACIOUS AND HOW WISE." 


All the hopes and fears that start 




From the fountain of the heart ; 


How gracious and how wise 


All the quiet bliss that lies. 


Is our chastising God ! 


AU our human sympathies — 


And ! how rich the blessings are 


These are voices from above, 


Which blossom from His rod ! 


Sweetly whispering : God is love. 




AKOitTMOxra, 


He lifts it up on high 
With pity in His heart. 




• 


That every stroke His children feel 




May grace and peace impart. 


TH K EESIGIf ATION. 


Instructed thus, they bow, 


God ! whose thunder shakes the sky, 


And own His sovereign sway — 


Whose eye this atom-globe surveys, 


They turn their erring footsteps back 


To Thee, my only rock, I fly,— 


To His forsaken way. 


Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 


His covenant love they seek, 
And seek the happy bands 
That closer stiU engage their hearts 


The mystic mazes of Thy will. 

The shadows of celestial night, 
Are past the power of human skill ; 


To honor His commands. 


But what the Eternal acts is right. 




teach me, in the trying hour — 


Dear Father, we consent 


When anguish swells the dewy tear — 


To discipline divine ; 


To stiU my sorrows, own Thy power. 


And bless the pains that make our souls 


Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. 


Still more completely Thine. 




PHn.TP DoDDErDGB. 


If in this bosom aught but Thee, 




Encroaching, sought a boundless sway. 
Omniscience could the danger see. 


• 




And Mercy look the cause away. 



CHi)RUS. 



787 



Then why, my soul, dost thou complain- 
Why drooping seek the dark recess { 

Shake off the melancholy chain ; 
For God created all to hless. 

But ah ! my breast is human still ; 

The rising sigh, the falling tear, 
My languid vitals' feeble rill, 

The sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet, with fortitude resigned, 
I '11 thank the inflictor of the blow — 

Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 
Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night. 
Which on my sinking spirit steals, 

"Will vanish at the morning light, 

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. 
Thohas Chattebton. 



CHORUS. 

Kma of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 
Thus we move, our sad steps timing 
To our cymbals' feeblest chiming. 
Where Thy house its rest accords. 
Chased and wounded birds are we, 
Through the dark air fled to Thee — 
To the shadow of Thy wings, 
Lord of lords ! and King of kings ! 

Behold, Lord ! the heathen tread 
The branches of Thy fruitful vine, 
That its luxurious tendrils spread 

O'er all the hills of Palestine. 
And now the wild boar comes to waste 
Even us — the greenest boughs and last. 
That, drinking of Thy choicest dew, 
On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 

No ! by the marvels of Thine hand, 
Thou wilt save Thy chosen land ! 
By all Thine ancient mercies shown. 
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown ; 
By the Egyptian's car-borne host. 
Scattered on the Red Sea coast — 
By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
Underneath the drowning water. 

Like us, in utter helplessness, 
Li their last and worst distress — 



On the sand and sea-weed lying — 
Israel poured her doleful sighing ; 
While before the deep sea flowed, 
And behind fierce Egypt rode — 
To their fathers' God they prayed, 
To the Lord of hosts for aid. 

On the margin of the flood 

With lifted rod the prophet stood ; 

And the summoned east wind blew. 

And aside it sternly threw 

The gathered waves that took their stand, 

Like crystal rocks, on either hand, 

Or walls of sea-green marble piled 

Round some irregular city wild. 

Then the light of morning lay 
On the wonder-paved way. 
Where the treasures of the deep 
In their caves of coral sleep. 
The profound abysses, where 
Was never sound from upper air, 
Rang with Israel's chanted words : 
King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 

Then with bow and banner glancing, 

On exulting Egypt came ; 
With her chosen horsemen prancing. 

And her cars on wheels of flame, 
In a rich and boastful ring. 
All around her furious king. 

But the Lord from out His cloud. 
The Lord looked down upon the proud ; 
And the host drave heavily 
Down the deep bosom of the sea. 

With a quick and sudden swell 

Prone the liquid ramparts fell ; 

Over horse, and over car, 

Over every man of war. 

Over Pharaoh's crown of gold. 

The loud thundering billows rolled. 

As the level waters spread, 

Down they sank — they sank like lead — 

Down sank without a cry or groan. 

And the morning sun, that shone 

On myriads of bright-armed men. 

Its meridian radiance then 

Cast on a wide sea, heaving, as of yore, 

Against a silent, solitary shore. 

Heney Haet Milman. 



-788 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 




Teach me to feel another's woe. 


THF. UmVERSAL PRAYER. 


To hide the fault I see- 




That mercy I to others show, 


DEO OPT. MAX. 


That mercy show to me. 


Father of all ! in every age, 


Mean though I am, not wholly so, 


In every clime adored — 


Since quickened by Thy breath ; 


By saint, by savage, and by sage — 


lead me,wheresoe'er I go, 


Jeliovah, Jove, or Lord ! 


Through this day's life or death. 


Thou great First Cause, least understood, 


This day be bread and peace my lot— 


Who all my sense confined 


All else beneath the sun 


To know but this : that Thou art good, 


Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 


And that myself am bhnd ; 


And let Thy wUl be done. 


Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 


To Thee, whose temple is all space, 


To see the good from ill ; 


Whose altar, earth, sea, skies — 


And, binding nature fast in fate, 


One chorus let all being raise ! 


Left free the human will. 


All nature's incense rise ! 




AuacANDEE Pope. 


"What conscience dictates to be done, 




Or warns me not to do. 


^ 


' 


This teach me more than hell to shun, 




That more than heaven pursue. 






DIVINE EJAOULATIOK 


What blessings Thy free bounty gives 




Let me not cast away — 


I. 


For God is paid when man receives : 


Geeat God ! whose sceptre rules the earth, 


To enjoy is to obey. 


Distil Thy fear into my heart. 
That, bemg rapt with holy mirth, 




Yet not to earth's contracted span 


I may proclaim how good Thou art ; 


Thy goodness let me bound. 


Open my lips, that I may sing 


Or think Thee Lord alone of man. 


Full praises to my God, my King. 


When thousand worlds are round. 




Let not this weak, unknowing hand 


n. 

Great God ! Thy garden is defaced, 


Presume Thy bolts to throw. 


The weeds thrive there, Thy flowers decay ; 


And deal damnation round the land 


call to mind Thy promise past — 


On each I judge Thy foe. 


Restore Thou them, cut these away ; 




Till then let not the weeds have power 


If I am right, Thy grace impart 


To starve or stint the poorest flower. 


Still in the right to stay ; 




If I am wrong, teach my heart 


m. 


To find that better way. 


In all extremes, Lord, Thou art still 




The mount whereto my hopes do flee ; 


Save me alike from foolish pride 


make my soul detest all ill. 


Or impious discontent. 


Because so much abhorred by Thee ; 


At aught Thy wisdom has denied, 


Lord, let Thy gracious trials show 


Or aught Thy goodness lent. 


That I am just — or make me so. 



THOF, GOD 


, SEEST ME., 789 


IV. 

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree, 


X. 

Great God ! whose kingdom hath no end. 


Yield to that heavenly voice of Thine, 


Into whose secrets none can dive, 


And shall that voice not startle me, 


Whose mercy none can apprehend, 


Nor stir this stone, this heart of mine ? 


Whose justice none can feel — and live, 


No, Lord, till Thou new-bore mine ear, 


What my dull heart cannot aspire 


Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear. 


To know. Lord, teach me to admire. 


V. 

Fountain of light and living breath, 


John Qtjaeles. 


• 


Whose mercies never fail nor fade. 


"THOU, GOD, SEEST l\fR." 


Fill me with life that hath no death, 




Fill me with light that hath no shade ; 


God, unseen but not unknown, 


Appoint the remnant of my days 


Thine eye is ever fixed on me ; 


To see Thy power and sing Thy praise. 


I dwell beneath Thy secret throne. 




Encompassed by Thy Deity. 


VI. 


Throughout this universe of space 


Lord God of gods ! before whose throne 


To nothing am I long allied, 


Stand storms and fire, what shall we 


For flight of time, and change of place, 


Eeturn to heaven, that is our own, 


My strongest, dearest bonds divide. 


"When all the world belongs to Thee ? 




We have no offerings to impart, 


Parents I had, but where are they ? 


But praises, and a wounded heart. 


Friends whom I knew I know no more ; 




Companions, once that cheered my way, 


VII. 


Have dropped behind or gone before. 


Thou that sitt'st in heaven and see'st 


Now I am one amidst a crowd 


My deeds without, my thoughts within, 


Of life and action hurrying round ; 


Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest — 


Now left alone — for, like a cloud, 


Command my soul, and cure my sin ; 


They came, they went, and are not found. 


How bitter my afflictions be 


Even from myself sometimes I part — 


I care not, so I rise to Thee. 


Unconscious sleep is nightly death — 




Yet surely by my couch Thou art, 


vm. 


To prompt my pulse, inspire my breath. 


What I possess, or what I crave, 


Of all that I have done and said 


Brings no content, great God, to me, 


How little can I now recall ! 


If what I would, or what I have, 


Forgotten things to me are dead ; 


Be not possessed and blest in Thee : 


With Thee they live,— Thou know'st them 


What I enjoy, make it mine, 


all. 


In making me — that have it — Thine. 






Thou hast been witti me from the womb, 


IX. 


Witness to every conflict here ; 




Nor wilt Thou leave me at the tomb — 


When winter fortunes cloud the brows 


Before Thy bar I must appear. 


Of summer friends — when eyes grow strange— 




When plighted faith forgets its vows, 


The moment comes, — the only one 


When earth and all things in it change — 


Of all my time to be foretold ; 


Lord, Thy mercies fail me never ; 


Yet when, and how, and where, can none 


Where once Thou lov'st, Thou lov'st for ever. 


Among the race of man unfold : — 



790 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



The moment comes when strength shall fail, 
When — health, and hope, and courage 
flown — 

I must go down into the vale 
And shade of death with Thee alone. 



Alone with Thee ! — in that dread strife 
Uphold me through mine agony; 

And gently he this dying life 
Exchanged for immortality. 

Then, when the unbodied spirit lands 
Where flesh and blood have never trod, 

And in the unveiled presence stands. 
Of Thee, my Saviour and my God — 

Be mine eternal portion this — 

Since Thou wert always here with me : 
That I may view Thy face in bliss, 

And be for evermore with Thee. 

James Montgomeey. 



DELIGHT m GOD ONLY. 

I LOVE, and have some cause to love, the 
earth — 
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good. 
She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse, she gives me 

food: 
But what's a creature. Lord, compared 

with Thee ? 
Or what 's my mother or my nurse to me ? 

I love the air — her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets in- 
vite me ; * 
Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with 
their flesh. 

And with their polyphonian notes delight 
me: 

But what 's the air, or all the sweets that 
she 

Can bless my soul withal, compared to 
Thee? 



I love the sea — she is my fellow-creature. 
My careful purveyor; she provides me 
store ; 
She walls me round ; she makes my diet 
greater ; 
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with 

Thee, 
"What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine 

eye- 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney. 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the 

sky: 
But what is heaven, great God, compared 

to Thee ? 
Without Thy presence, heaven 's no heaven 

to me. 

Without Thy presence, earth gives no reflec- 
tion; 

Without Thy presence, sea affords no treas- 
ure; 
Without Thy presence, air 's a rank infection ; 

Without Thy presence, heaven 's itself no 
pleasure : 

If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee, 

What 's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven tc 
me? 

The highest honors that the world can boast 

Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
The brightest beams of glory are, at most. 
But dying sparkles of Thy living fire ; 
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, 

be 
But nightly glow-worms if compared to 
Thee. 

Without Thy presence, wealth is bags of 

cares ; 
Wisdom but folly ; joy, disquiet, sadness ; 
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; 
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing 

madness — 
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what 

they be, 
Nor have their being, when compared with 

Thee. 



GOD'S GREATNESS. ^ 79] 


In having all things, and not Thee, what 




have I ? 


"THOU GOD UNSEARCHABLE." 


Not having Thee, what have my labors 




got? 


Thou God unsearchable, unknown. 


Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I ? 


Who still conceal'st Thyself from me, 


And having Thee alone, what have I not ? 


Hear an apostate spirit groan — 


I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be 


Broke off and banished far from Thee : 


Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed 


But conscious of my fall I mourn. 


of Thee I 


And fain I would to Thee return. 


Fkancis Quakles. 






Send forth one ray of heavenly light. 
Of gospel hope, of humble fear. 






To guide me through the gulf of night — 


TTIVTE PAST, TIME PASSING, TIME TO 


My poor desponding soul to cheer, 


COME. 


Till Thou my unbelief remove. 




And show me all Thy glorious love. 


LoED, Thou hast been Thy people's rest. 
Through all their generations — 

Their refuge when by troubles pressed, 
Their hope in tribulations : 


A hidden God indeed Thou art — 

Thy absence I this moment feel ; 
Yet must I own it from my heart — 


Thou, ere the mountains sprang to birth, 


Concealed, Thou art a Saviour still ; 


Or ever Thou hadst formed the earth, 


And though Thy face I cannot see, 


1 1 
Art God from everlasting. 


I know Thine eye is fixed on me. 




My Saviour Thou, not yet revealed ; 


Our life is like the transient breath. 


Yet will I Thee my Saviour call. 


That tells a mournful story — 


Adore Thy hand — from sin withheld — 


Early or late stopped short by death — 


Thy hand shall save me from my fall : 


And where is all our glory ? 


Now Lord, throughout my darkness shine. 


Our days are threescore years and ten, 


And show Thyself for ever mine. 


And if the span be lengthened then. 


Chart.ks Wesuby. 


Their strength is toil and sorrow. 
Lo ! Thou hast set before Thine eyes 






All our misdeeds and errors ; 


GOD'S GREATNESS. 


Our secret sins from darkness rise 


GOD, Thou bottomless abyss ! 


At Thine awakening terrors : 


Thee to perfection who can know? 


Who shall abide the trying hour ? 


height immense ! what words suffice 


Who knows the thunder of Thy power? 


Thy countless attributes to show ? 


We flee unto Thy mercy. 


Unfathomable depths Thou art ! 




plunge me in Thy mercy's sea ! 


Lord, teach us so to mark our days 


Void of true wisdom is my heart — 


That we may prize them duly ; : 


With love embrace and cover me ! 


So guide our feet in Wisdom's ways 


While Thee, all infinite, I set 


That we may love Thee truly ; 


By faith before my ravished eye, 


Return, Lord ! our griefs behold. 


My weakness bends beneath the weight — 


And with Thy goodness, as of old. 


O'erpowered, I sink, I faint, I die ! 


satisfy us early ! 




James Montgomery. 


Eternity Thy fountain was. 




Which, like Thee, no beginning knew ; 
Thou wast ere time began his race. 


• 




Ere glowed with stars th' ethereal blue. 



792 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Greatness unspeakable is Thine — 

Greatness whose undiminished ray, 
When short-lived worlds are lost, shall 
shine, — 

When earth and heaven are fled away. 
Unchangeable, all-perfect Lord, 

Essential life 's unbounded sea ! 
What lives and moves, lives by Thy word ; 

It lives, and moves, and is, from Thee. 

Thy parent-hand. Thy forming skill, 

Firm fixed this universal chain ; 
Else empty, barren darkness still 

Had held his unmolested reign. 
Whate'er in earth, or sea, or sky. 

Or shuns or meets the wandering thought, 
Escapes or strikes the searching eye, 

By Thee was to perfection brought ! 
High is Thy power above all height ; 

Whate'er Thy will decrees is done ; 
Thy wisdom, equal to Thy might. 

Only to Thee, God, is known ! 



Heaven's glory is Thy awful throne. 

Yet earth partakes Thy gracious sway; 
Vain man ! thy wisdom folly own — 

Lost is thy reason's feeble ray. 
What our dim eye could never see 

Is plain and naked to Thy sight ; 
What thickest darkness veils, to Thee 

Shines clearly as the morning light. 
In light Thou dwell'st, light that no shade, 

No variation, ever knew ; 
Heaven, earth, and hell stand all displayed. 

And open to Thy piercing view. 

Thou, true and only God, lead'st forth 

Th' immortal armies of the sky ; 
Thou laugh'st to scorn the gods of earth ; 

Thou thunderest, and amazed they fly ! 
With downcast eye th' angelic choir 

Appear before Thy awful face ; 
Trembling they strike the golden lyre. 

And through heaven's vault resound Thy 
praise. 
In earth, in heaven, in all Thou art ; 

The conscious creature feels Thy nod. 
Whose forming hand on every part 

Impressed the image of its God. 



Thine, Lord, is wisdom. Thine alone ! 

Justice and truth before Thee stand; 
Yet, nearer to Thy sacred throne, 

Mercy withholds Thy lifted hand. 
Each evening shows Thy tender love. 

Each rising morn Thy plenteous grace ; 
Thy wakened wrath doth slowly move. 

Thy willing mercy flies apace ! 
To Thy benign, indulgent care. 

Father, this light, this breath we owe ; 
And all we have, and all we are. 

From Thee, great Source of Being, flow. 

Parent of Good, Thy bounteous hand 

Incessant blessings down distils, 
And all in air, or sea, or land, 

With plenteous food and gladness fills. 
All things in Thee live, move, and are — 

Thy power infused doth all sustain ; 
Even those Thy daily favors share 

Who thankless spurn Thy easy reign. 
Thy sun Thou bidd'st his genial r^y 

Alike on all impartial pour ; 
To all, who hate or bless Thy sway. 

Thou bidd'st descend the fruitful shower. 

Yet while, at length, who scorned Thy might 

Shall feel Thee a consuming fire. 
How sweet the joys, the crown how bright, 

Of those who to Thy love aspire ! 
All creatures praise th' eternal Name ! 

Ye hosts that to His court belong — 
Cherubic choirs, seraphic flames — 

Awake the everlasting song ! 
Thrice holy ! Thine the kingdom is — 

The power omnipotent is Thine ; 
And when created nature dies, 

Thy never-ceasing glories shine. 

Joachim JtrsTtrs Beeithatjpt. (German.) 

Translation of John Wesley. 



GOD. 



THOTJ eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide — 
Unchanged through time's all-devastating 

flight ! 
Thou only God— there is no God beside ! 
Being above all beings ! Mighty One, 



GOD. 



793 



Whom none can comprehend and none ex- 
plore ! 
"Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone — 
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er, — 
Being whom we call God, and know no 
more ! 

In its sublime research, philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep — ^may count 

The sands or the sun's rays — but, God! for 

Thee 
There is no weight nor measure ; none can 

mount 
Up to Thy mysteries ; Eeason's brightest 

spark. 
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would 

try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 

high. 
Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence — ^Lord ! in Thee 

Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Sprung forth from Thee — of light, joy, har- 
mony, 

Sole Origin — all life, all beauty Thine ; 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious ! 
Great ! 

Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe sur- 
round — 
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with 

breath ! 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 
And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery 

blaze, 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 

Thee; 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy 
praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss — 



They own Thy power, accomplish Thy com- 
mand. 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 

What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal 
light— 

A glorious company of golden streams — 

Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 

Suns hghting systems with their joyous 
beams ? 

But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. 
All this magnificence in Thee is lost : — 
What are ten thousand worlds compared to 

Thee? 
And what am I then? — Heaven's unnum- 
bered host, 
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought. 
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I then ? Naught ! 

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light di- 
vine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom 

too; 
Yes ! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine 
As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew. 
Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
Eager towards Thy presence — for in Thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, 
Even to the throne of Thy divinity. 
I am, O God ! and surely Thou must be ! 

Thou art ! — directing, guiding all — Thou art ! 
Direct my understanding then to Thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering 

heart ; 
Though but an atom midst immensity. 
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy 

hand! 
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and 

earth — 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 
Close to the realms where angels have their 

birth, 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me — 
In me is matter's last gradation lost. 



794 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



And the next step is spirit — ^Deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 

A monarch and a slave — a worm, a god ! 

"Whence came I here, and how? so marvel- 
lously 

Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this 
clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

For from itself alone it could not be ! 

Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! 
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! 
Thy light. Thy love, in their bright plenitude 
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death ; and bade it wear 
The garments of eternal day, and wing 



Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
Even to its source — to Thee — ^its Author 
there. 

O thoughts ineffable ! visions blest ! 
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, 
And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can 

soar, 
Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and 

good ! 

Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 

And when the tongue is eloquent no more 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

Gabeeel Eomanowitch Deezhavut. (Russian.) 
Translation of John Boweing. 





APPENDIX. 


STABAT MATER. 


Sancta mater! istudagas, 




Crucifixi fige plagas 


Stabat mater dolorosa, 


Cordi meo valide ; 


Juxta crucem lacrymosa, 


Tui nati yulnerati. 


Qua pendebat filius ; 


Tam dignati pro me pati, 


Cujus animam gementem, 


Pcenas mecum divide. 


Contristatam, et dolentem, 




Pertransivit gladius. 


Fac me vere tecum flere, 


! quam tristis et afflicta, 
Fuit ilia benedicta 
Mater Unigeniti. 
Quse mcerebat et dolebat, 
Et tremebat, cum videbat 


Crucifixo condolere. 
Donee ego vixero ; 

Juxta crucem tecum stare, 

Te libenter sociare 
In planctu desidero. 


Nati pcenas inclyti ! 






Yirgo virginum prseclara ! 


Quis est homo, qui non fleret 
Christi matrem si videret, 

In tanto supplicio ? 
Quis posset non contristari, 
Piam matrem conteraplari 


Mihi jam non sis amara 

Fac me tecum plangere ; 
Fac ut portem Christi mortem, 
Passione fac consortem 
Et pcenam recolere. 


Dolentem cum filio ? 






Fac me plagis yulnerari, 


Pro peccatis suae gentis. 


Cruceque me fac beari. 


Yidet Jesum in tormentis, 


Ob amorem filii ; 


Et flagellis subditum ; 


Inflammatus et accensus, 


Yidit suum dulcem natum. 


Per te pia, sim defensus 


Moriendo desolatum, 


In die judicii. 


Dum emisit spiritum. 






Christe, cum sit hinc transive, 


Eia mater, fons amoris ! 


Da per matrem me venire 


Me sentire rim doloris 


Ad palmam victorise ; 


Fac, ut tecum lugeam ; 


Quando corpus morietur, 


Fac ut ardeat cor meum 


Fac ut anima donetur, 


In amando Christum Deum 


Paradisi gloria. 


Ut sibi complaceam. 


Jacobits de Benedioti». 



796 


APPENDIX. 






In tam nova ligatura 


ORATIO DEVOTISSBf A AD TRES PERSONAS 


Sic utraque stat natura. 




SS. TRINITATIS. 


Ut conservet quicquid erat. 
Factus quidem quod non erat, 




AD PATREM. 


Noster iste mediator. 




Alpha et n, magne Deus, 
Heli, Heli, Deus meus, 


Iste noster legis, dator, 
Circumcisus, baptizatus, 
Crucifixus, tumulatus, 




Cujus virtus totum posse, 


' Obdormivit, et descendit, 




Cujus sensus totum nosse, 


Resurrexit et ascendit : 




Cujus esse summum bonum, 


Sic ad coelos elevatus 




Cujus opus quidquid bonum, 
Super cuncta, subter cuncta, 


Judicabit judicatus. 




Extra cuncta, intra cuncta ; 






Intra cuncta, nee inclusus, 


ORATIO AD SPIRITUM SANCTUM. 




Extra cuncta, nee exclusus, 


Paraclitus increatus, 




Super cuncta, nee elatus. 


Neque factus, neque natus, 




Subter cuncta, nee sub stratus j 


Patri consors, Genitoque, 




Super totus, prsesidendo, 


Sic procedit ab utroque, 




Subter totus, sustinendo. 


Ne sit minor paritate, 




Extra totus, complectendo, 


Vel discretus qualitate. 




Intra totus es, implendo. 


Quanti illi, tantus iste, 




Intra, nusquam coarctaris, 


Quales illi, talis iste. 




Extra, nusquam dilataris. 


Ex quo illi, ex tunc iste ; 




Subter, nuUo fatigaris. 


Quantum illi, tantum iste. 




Super, nullo sustentaris. 


Pater alter, sed gignendo ; 




Mundum movens, non moTeris, 


Natus alter, sed nascendo ; 




Locum tenens, non Veneris, 


Flamen ab his procedendo ; 




Tempus mutans, non mutaris, 


Tres sunt unum subsistendo* 




Vaga firmans, non vagaris. 


Quisque trium plenus Deus, 




Yis externa, vel necesse 


Non tres tamen Di, sed Deus. 




Non alternat tuum esse ; 


In hoc Deo, Deo vero, 




Heri nostrum, eras, et pridem 


Tres et unum assevero. 




Semper tibi nunc et idem ; 


Dans usise unitatem. 




Tuum, Deus, bodiernum, 


Et personis Trinitatem. 




Indivisum, sempiternum ; 


In personis nulla prior. 




In hoc totum prsevidisti, 


Nulla major, nulla minor ; 




Totum simul perfecisti, 


Unaquseque semper ipsa. 




Ad exemplar summae mentis 


Sic est constans atque fixa, 




Formam prsestans dementis. 


Ut nee in se varietur. 
Nee in uUam transmutetur. 




ORATIO AD FILIUM. 






Nati, Patri cosequalis. 


Hsec est fides orthodoxa. 




Patri consubstantialis. 


Non hie error sine noxa ; 




Patris splendor et figura, 


Sicut dico, sic et credo. 




Factor factus creatura. 


Nee in pravam partem cede. " 




Camem nostram induisti. 


Inde venit, bone Deus, 




Causam nostram suscepisti : 


Ne desperem quamvis reus ; 




Sempiternus, temporalis ; 


Reus mortis non despero. 




Moriturus, immortalis ; 


Sed in morte vitam qusero. 




Verus homo, verus Deus ; 


Quo te placem nil prsetendo, 




Impermixtus Homo-Deus. 


Nisi fidem quam defendo ; 




Non conversus hie in carnem, 


Fidem vides, banc imploro ; 




Nee minutus propter carnem ; 


Leva fascem quo laboro ; 




Hie assumptus est in Deum, 


Per hoc sacrum cataplasma 




Nee consumptus propter Deum ; 


Convalescat segrum plasma. 




Patri compar Deitate, 


Extra portam jam delatum. 




Minor carnis veritate : 


Jam foetentem, tumulatum, 




Deus pater tantum Dei, 


Vitta ligat, lapis urget ; 




Virgo mater, sed et Dei. 


Sed si jubes, hie resurget; 



APPENDIX. 


191 


Jube, lapis revolyetur, 


Ubi tortor semper cajdens, 




Jube, vitta dirumpetur ; 


Ubi vermis semper edens ; 




Exiturus nescit moras, 


Ubi totum hoc perenne, 




Postquam clamis : Exi foras. 


Quia perpes mors Gehennse. 




In hoc salo mea ratis 






Infestatur a piratis ; 


Me reeeptet Syon ilia, 




Hinc assultus, inde fluctus, 


Sjon, David urbs tranquilla, 




Hinc et inde mors et luctus ; 


Cujus faber Auetor lucis. 




Sed tu, bone Nauta, veni, 


Cujus portffi lignum crueis. 




Preme ventos, mare leni ; 


Cujus muri lapis vivus. 




Fac abscedant hi piratae, 


Cujus custos Rex festivus. 




Due ad portum salva rate. 


In hac urbe lux solennis. 




Infecunda mea ficus, 


Ver seternum, pax perennis : 




Cujus ramus ramus siccus, 


In hac odor implens coelos, 




Incidetur, incendetur, 


In hac semper festum melos ; 




Si promulgas quod meretur ; 


Non est ibi corruptela, 




Sed hoc anno dimittatur, 


Non defeetus, non querela ; 




Stercoretur, fodiatur ; 


Non minuti, non deformes. 




Quod si necdum respondebit, 


Omnes Christo sunt eonformes. 




Flens hoc loquor, tunc ardebit. 


Urbs ccelestis, urbs beata, 




Vetus hostis in me furit, 


Super petram coUocata, 




Aquis mersat, flammis urit ; 


Urbs in portu satis tuto. 




Inde languens et afflictus 


De longinquo te saluto ; 




Sibi soli sum relictus. 


Te saluto, te suspiro, 




Ut infirmus convalescat, 


Te aflfecto, te requiro. 




Ut hie hostis evanescat, 


Quantum tui gratulantur. 




Tu virtutem jejunandi 


Quam festive convivantur, 




Des infirmo, des orandi ; 


Quis affectus eos stringat, 




Per hsec duo, Christo teste, 


Aut quas gemma muros pingat, 




Liberabor ab hac peste ; 


Quis calcedon, quis jacinthus, 




Ab hac peste solve mentem, 


Norunt illi qui sunt intus. 




Fac devotum, pcenitentem ; 


In plateis hujus urbis, 




Da timorem, quo projecto. 


Sociatus piis turbis. 




De salute nU conjecto ; 


Cum Moyse et Elia 




Da fidem, spem, earitatem. 


Pium cantem Alleluya. 




Da discretam pietatem ; 


Amen. 




Da contemptum terrenorum, 


St. Hildebeet. | 


Appetitum supernorum. 


~* 




Totum, Deus, in te spero ; 






Deus, ex te totum qusero. 






Tu laus mea, meum bonum. 


DIES IRiE. 




Mea ctmeta, tuum donum ; 




Tu solamen in labore. 


Dies irse, dies ilia 




Mendicamen in languore ; 


Solvet saeclum in favilla 




Tu in luctu mea lyra, 


Teste David cum sibylla. 




Tu lenimen es in ira ; 






Tu in areto liberator, 


Quantus tremor est futurus. 




Tu in lapsu relevator ; 


Quando Judex est venturus, 




Motum prsestas in prorictu, 


Cuncta stricte discussurus. 




Spem conservas in defectu ; 






Si quis Isedit, tu rependis, 


Tuba mirum spargens sonum 




Si minatur, tu defendis : 


Per sepulcra regionum, 




Quod est anceps tu dissolvis, 


Coget omnes ante thronum. 




Quod tegendum tu involvis. 


Mors stupebit et natura. 




Tu intrare me non sinas 


Quum resurget creatura 




Infernales officinas ; 


Judicanti responsura. 




TJbi mceror, ubi metus, 






Ubi fcetor, ubi fletus. 


Liber scriptus proferetur. 




Ubi probra deteguntur, 


In quo totum continetur, 




Ubi rei confunduntur, 


Unde mundus judicetur. 





798 



APPENDIX. 



Judex ergo quum sedebit, 
Quidquid latet apparebit, 
Nil inultum remanebit. 

Quid sum miser tum dicturus, 
Quem patronum rogaturus, 
Quum vix Justus sit securus? 

Rex tremendse majestatis 
Qui salvandos salvas gratis, 
Salva me fons pietatis ! 

Recordare, Jesu pie, 
Quod sum causa tuse vise ; 
Ne me perdas ilia die ! 

Quserens me sedisti lassus, 
Redemisti crucem passus ; 
Tantus labor non sit cassus. 

Juste judex ultionis, 
Donum fac remissionis 
Ante diem rationis. 



Ingemisco tanquam reus, 
Culpa rubet vultus meus ; 
Supplicanti parce, Deus I 

Qui Mariam absolvisti, 
Et latronem exaudisti, 
Mihi quoque spem dedisti. 

Preces meae non sunt dignse, 
Sed tu bonus fac benigne 
Ne perenni cremer igne ! 

Inter oves locum prsesta, 
Et ab hsedis me sequestra, 
Statuens in parte dextra. 

Confutatis maledictis, 
Flammis acribus addictis, 
Voca me cum benedictis. 

Oro supplex et acclinis, 
Cor contritum quasi cinis ; 
Gere curam mei finis, 

Thomas pb Oblako. 



TflE EN'D. 



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